


The Pearl

by peetapov



Series: The Hunger Games trilogy from Peeta's POV [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peetapov/pseuds/peetapov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Catching Fire from Peeta's perspective</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

I roll over and try to get comfortable, try to breathe regularly and slow my heartbeat. It was a nightmare is all, just another dream. After another half-hour it’s clear I’m not sleeping anymore tonight, and, if I’m honest, I’m kind of relieved. The nightmares have been increasingly intense as today drew near. The tour. The Capitol making sure no one in the districts has a chance to forget that they are not safe. The Capitol will take your children and make you watch them die for sport. Then send the only survivor on a “victory” tour and make you celebrate them. Well, for the first time ever, victors.

I bury my face in my pillow and squinch my eyes shut, trying to evade the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not only am I to be paraded around the nation as a graphic reminder of the most horrifying time of my life, I’m to be forced back into the role of one half of a deliriously in-love couple. Holding her hand, kissing her, smiling adoringly into her eyes. And she will endure it, but only because she has to. She will press close to me, kiss me back, smile just as adoringly until the instant the cameras are off us. Then she will turn away, relieved to be rid of my attentions. Tossing restlessly, I groan into the empty darkness.

Enough. I swing my foot to the floor and reach for my prosthetic leg. Strapping it on securely below my knee is second nature now and I rise smoothly, heading for my desk. I click on the small lamp and slide my notebook over. Flipping to an empty page, I roll a pencil between my fingers, closing my eyes and trying to focus on the image nattering at the edge of my mind. My hand grows still as the picture comes clear in my head. Putting pencil to page, I begin a quick sketch. The even, sure strokes glide over the paper and her eyes fill the smooth surface. She looks out at me with her clear gaze, just as she looked at me the first time we saw each other after the arena. Her gray eyes hold such a depth of relief and joy at being reunited. As though she had really needed me as much as I need her. My hand trembles and her bottom lashes go awry.

These are the eyes that haunt my dreams. How was she able to fake it so well that it reflected in her eyes? The kisses, the handholding, the pressing close to me, I can understand those. But she would look at me as though no one else mattered. As though we were linked in the universe. How desperate was I that she feel something for me that I convinced myself I could see it in her eyes?

As usual, the drawing doesn’t make the pain go away, but it does make it substantial in a way that I can deal with it. I can get hold of it to lock it into the vault I’ve created in my mind and get on with my day. I don’t want to think about how full that vault may be getting, or what may happen when it reaches capacity. For now, locked away is good enough.

I stretch and click off the lamp. The windows glow with that peculiar light that hints at snow in the darkness and I need to get to the bakery. Since returning home I’ve moved into the large and imposing house in the Victors’ Village, across the green from my old mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, and three doors down from my co-victor, Katniss Everdeen, the owner of the lying eyes. There is more than enough room for my parents and two brothers to join me, but they said they preferred to stay over our family bakery, needing to be close. My eldest brother, Jasper, is engaged and it doesn’t make sense for him to move, then move again when he marries in the summer. My mother said they didn’t want to impose, to be a burden. Turns out she figured she could get her hands on more of my prize money by having me renovate the house over the bakery to her standards, then asking for a “small allowance,” to pay for little things like dresses imported from District 8, electronic gadgets from 3 and special, gossip laden television channels streaming from the Capitol. But, not living in my house, she doesn’t feel any obligations to me.

I don’t mind. There’s plenty of money, and it makes her happy. I live simply, keeping mostly to myself and working in the bakery, staying in the back with the ovens where I don’t have to interact with as many of the public. Always asking about Katniss, or wanting to discuss the Games. Spreading out my money through the district has become my mission. I’ve come to know the Hob, a black market where I used to be terrified to go. Turns out most of the people there are more desperate than frightening, just trying to get by on the very little they have. I purchase white liquor for Haymitch from Ripper, stew of questionable ingredients from Greasy Sae, and whatever else I can exchange coin for.

I’ve come to like the comfortable closeness of the place. Everyone there seems to understand it’s okay to be damaged, you can still be who you are. In town, and especially with my mother, it’s exhausting to constantly pretend that either the Games never happened, or that I emerged unchanged. People in town want to talk to me about it as though I’d been on vacation and will have a photo album to share with them. More often than I’d ever have imagined, people ask me what it was like to have to kill someone. In the Hob I’m just another district citizen struggling to deal with my lot in life. But one with a jingling pocket. I don’t pretend that hasn’t helped me be accepted there.

Downstairs I make some tea and a quick breakfast, still feeling a little decadent to have fresh, soft bread anytime I want. Wandering into the living room with my warm mug cupped in my hands, I peer out across the green to Haymitch’s house. The windows are dark and no smoke rises from the chimney. No doubt he’s finally passed out and wouldn’t appreciate me bringing him any breakfast. I sip from the steaming tea and watch the snow drift silently down. The camera crews will be here at noon, bringing all the noise and motion of the Capitol to my quiet corner of the world. It will be nice to see Portia, though. She’s the one I’ve been able to talk to since coming home, I look forward to her phone calls. It was Portia I started calling when the nightmares were so bad when I first got back. Now we talk at least once a week, often more, and she’s the only one I talk to completely openly. Well, not completely, since the phone line is undoubtedly tapped, but we’ve worked out a type of codespeak. She’ll be here with my devoted prep team, and I even smile at the thought of seeing Effie Trinket again.

By the time I’m ready to head to town, the snow has stopped and the light dusting on the path is undisturbed. I bury my chin in the collar of my coat and shiver against the cold. It’s about a half-mile walk to the bakery and I hurry for the warmth of the ovens my father will no doubt have stoked for the day. Stomping my feet on the back porch knocks most of the snow off my boots, and lets my family know I’m coming in, something I’ve found to be helpful when approaching places my mother might be talking. I pull open the door and sure enough, she stands with my father in suspicious silence, a bright smile looking pinned to her face.

“Good morning, Peeta dear,” she coos at me. “Did you sleep well last night? It’s a big day, you’ll want to ask your prep team to do something about your hair.” I run a self-conscious hand through my blond curls and wonder if I’ll ever get used to her addressing me so cloyingly.

“I did, thanks,” I lie smoothly. “Morning, dad. How about you guys?” I ask as I hang my coat on the hook by the door.

“Oh, you know,” she wrinkles up her nose. “The new bed is soft enough, but…” she trails off, shaking her head regretfully. “Well, you know how I get cold, right dear? But I don’t let that bother me. I was seeing on the television that in the Capitol they have such beautiful down comforters with heat sensors now. I don’t mean you have to get me one, dear, I just curl up tightly in my old blanket and think how much more I’d be shivering if I were in that nasty damp cave like you were or something like that,” she tells me, able somehow to look me straight in the eye.

“Oh, that’s so funny,” I reply, as expected. “I was just planning on getting you one of those, I worry about you being cold at night. Why don’t you pick one you like and have it delivered?”

“Oh, Peeta, darling, you don’t have to do that. I’ll just go see what color will go best with the new wallpaper…” her voice fades as she heads upstairs into her new bedroom.

My father meets my eyes and frowns. Sheepishly, I duck my head and move to the sink to wash my hands before starting to work. Today will be bread, one of my favorite days. Punching and kneading, the smooth, elastic loaves rising on the brick counter, the warm, yeasty scent wafting through the whole kitchen. I inhale deeply and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the smell of home. Thankfully, my father decides to get to work instead of lecturing and we spend the morning side by side, a natural rhythm between us as we move quietly through the comfortable routines.

A little before eleven o’clock, I hang my apron by the oven and wash the dusting of flour off my hands and arms. “I have to get going,” I tell my father, shrugging into my heavy coat. “I’ll be on the train by one.”

He finishes sliding a tray into the oven and turns to face me. Never one for talk, he hasn’t asked me anything about the tour all morning, for which I’m grateful. Keeping my mind occupied with menial tasks is the only way I’m holding it together right now. Now, though, I can see in his eyes all the pain of understanding, and it almost undoes me.

“Enjoy the food,” is all he says before wrapping me in a giant hug. I cling to his solid warmth as long as I can before stepping back.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Tell everyone I’ll miss them,” I add, trying not to let my voice crack. Jasper is working in his fiancée’s family’s shop today, but he came by the house for dinner last night to see me a last time before I’m gone for weeks. Uri and my mother haven’t even bothered to say good-bye. My mother is busy shopping and Uri can barely suppress his jealousy now that I’m a national hero and avoids me all he can. My father nods and for a minute I feel like I can’t leave him. Like I’m abandoning him here with no one to be himself with. I hug him again and murmur, “I love you,” into his shoulder before grabbing a warm loaf and heading out the door.

The biting wind swirls dry, light flakes of snow in the air and I tuck the bread under my coat to keep it warm as I trudge back to the Village. As I pass Katniss’ house, I glance curiously at the long, low car parked a house away. It’s much fancier than I would expect of Cinna or the prep team, but I’m distracted from it when one of Haymitch’s windows squeals open and Katniss’ booted leg thrusts out. The familiar twist of my stomach whenever I’m going to be around her is softened a little by my smiling recognition that she must be trying to wake Haymitch for the show. My suspicion is confirmed as I enter through the front door and hear her growl at him,

“You should have asked Peeta.”

“Asked me what?” I ask as casually as I can, crossing to the table and setting the loaf down. I hold out my hand, knowing Haymitch will be clutching the knife he habitually sleeps with.

He hands it over while grumbling, “Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia,” as he shrugs out of his soaked shirt. I smile when I see the empty basin next to Katniss’ feet and grab a bottle of liquor from the floor, pouring it over the knife. I use my shirt to clean the blade and slice the heel, Haymitch’s favorite, handing it to him. I steel myself against the hollowness I always feel when we’re together and look Katniss in the eyes for the first time since I came in. She is dressed for the woods, bundled in a hunting jacket and hair in a braid. Her cheeks glow and her eyes are bright as she perches half out the window, strong and lithe. My arms tremble with how much I want to hold her.

“Would you like a piece?” I offer politely.

“No, I ate at the Hob,” she replies, just as formally. “But thank you.” She always addresses me in the same tone. Stiff and reluctant, as though she’s encountered an acquaintance from years ago and is trying to make small talk until it’s acceptable to leave.

“You’re welcome,” I say, trying to keep the pain from my voice.

“Brrr,” Haymitch fakes a shiver as he hucks his shirt over his shoulder. “You two have a lot of warming up to do before show time.”

I avoid Katniss’ eyes again, trying my best to ignore how soon I’ll have to hold her hand again, kiss her lips again, know she is only acting again.

“Take a bath Haymitch,” she snorts, and drops through the window, out of sight.


	2. Chapter Two

Haymitch swears like a fiend when Katniss disappears, but more from habit than aggravation. He’s gnawing on the hunk of bread and washing it down with liquor while I watch him uneasily.

“What?” he grunts at me.

“Nothing,” I shrug. “Just waiting for you to finish so I can be sure you get in the shower.”

He leans back in his chair and stares at me.  “What, really?” he demands.

My eyes fall away and I feel myself flush. Slovenly, anti-social drunk that he may be, I know that Haymitch cares about me. In whatever capacity he’s able to, anyway. He’s been an unexpected source of comfort since we returned from the arena. I can be completely myself around him with no judgment or expectation, because he knows what it’s like to come home. And if nothing else, he’s a stunning non-example. I feel like he is always honest with me, except for once. And that once is devouring me.

“I wish you’d told me,” I finally say, giving voice to the ache I’ve been carrying for months.

“No, you don’t,” he says dismissively, tipping back his head and taking a long pull from the bottle in his hand.

“You should have told me,” I insist. “I thought- I thought-” but here my words fail me.

“I know,” he says, and now it’s his gaze that drops. But only for a moment. He brings his gray eyes back up to meet mine and argues sternly, “What would it have helped? It could only have hurt you both. So you believed a lie for a few more days. What difference did it make?”

“I looked like an idiot!” I cry, all the hurt and rejection and loss that’s been eating away at me bursts from my lips. “Slobbering over her like a lovesick puppy, and she didn’t…” my voice cracks and I feel tears sting behind my eyes. “She didn’t even care,” I finish brokenly.

“Of course she cared,” Haymitch says shortly. “She did everything she could to keep you alive. To keep you both alive,” his voice is rising. “What would have been different? You still would have had to slobber over her for the cameras, it just would have been harder, for both of you.” He wags a finger at me blearily, “You need to get your head right. The cameras will be back here soon and you better start slobbering all over again. She isn’t in love with you. Get over it. You both need to convince the world you are stupid for each other and this ‘she never cared’ routine isn’t going to cut it.” He’s really winding it up now. “She made choices, just like you did. Accept what you have. A life. Yours and hers. Two of you came out of there because of what you both made people believe. Stop whining you didn’t get everything you wanted and be grateful for what you got. It’s a damn sight more than what 22 other tributes came away with.” He drops the empty bottle on the floor and heaves himself to his feet, chucking me on the shoulder as he wavers past on his way upstairs to shower.

I stare after him, hoping I resemble a guppy less than I suspect I do. I digest his words as I hear him thumping around upstairs, going over what he said and examining how I feel about it.

“Damn it,” I mutter, shaking my head. If Haymitch Abernathy has his head on straighter than I do, it’s time to start looking closely at my choices. I leave the bread in the kitchen, gingerly pushing aside a pile of who-knows-what to clear a spot on the counter, and let myself out. Crossing back through the snowy grounds to my own house, I pause on the front steps, looking down the street toward Katniss’ house. The car is still outside and it reminds me how soon my own prep team will arrive. Turning the key in the lock, I let myself in and drape my coat over a hook by the door. All the while Haymitch’s words echo in my head. Could he be right? I’m worried he is.

The cold has made my leg stiff and I limp a little as I make my way to the studio in the back room. Swinging open the door I take a deep breath, inhaling the acrid smells of paints and cleaners. The huge windows flood the room with light and I smile at the chaotic warmth. This is the one part of my prize money I hoard for myself. Canvases, paints, brushes and more, all the supplies that need to be imported to sustain my hobby, which in turn sustains me. I have to bundle up the paintings I’m taking with us on the train to display as my “talent” in the Capitol.

Crossing to the back corner, I approach the dark collection I tend to paint late at night and put away, out of sight. These are the paintings of the Games, the ones I use to capture the images when I wake panting from a nightmare. Capture them so I can lock them away, out of my waking mind. The stacks wait, like coiled serpents, in the corner. Taking a deep breath, I begin flipping through the nearest pile. At first, it’s hard to look at them, they bring memories boiling to the surface and I feel my chest tighten. But as I press on, I start to see them as they are, memories. Harmless in their stillness except for whatever power I give them to disturb me. I stop at the large oil of Katniss up the tree, the Careers clustered around the bottom of the trunk, howling for her blood.

I was in that group at the bottom, and as far as she knew, I was just as eager for her death. In her face is reflected the disgust she felt that I would join with them, not only because it was despicable, but because of the high-handed speech I’d given about not playing by the Capitol’s rules. And yet, I flip a couple more panels, stopping at the one that has given me more grief than most of the others. Looking at it now, after Haymitch’s lecture, I see it clearly. In the dark of night, Katniss leans from her perch high in the safety of the tree’s limbs, her face to the sky. The night she called my name. She’d had no idea I joined the Careers only to protect her, but when given the chance to save us both, she’d come for me.

Turning to the pile behind me, I search until I find the one I’m looking for. A smaller piece, dark with browns and blacks, but the eye is drawn to the bright red. Katniss, unconscious on the floor of the cave in a pool of her own blood after she’d gone to the Cornucopia to get the medicine that saved my life. I trace a gentle finger over her pale face, remembering how terrified I’d been to find her like that when I woke. When I woke because of what she did to save me.

I hang my head as shame bubbles up in hot waves from my stomach. Katniss has been cold and stiff and formal around me ever since we got home. But not because she doesn’t care about me, because I’ve been so cold to her. She hurt me deeply and scarringly, but not on purpose. And in an effort to save our lives. All these months, I’ve been letting my heartache cloud my vision. And it took Haymitch to make me see reason. I shake my head ruefully.

Turning away from the piles of paintings of the Games, I walk across the room to a single canvas that sits hidden under a draping. With gentle fingers, I move the cloth aside and contemplate the picture for the first time in months. Katniss sits against a tree just inside the fence behind the Hob. She sits with hands pressed to flushed cheeks, eyes closed, face turned to the sunset. She is beautiful.

When we returned, it was weeks of celebration before the cameras left. Weeks of continuing to play the besotted lovers at events and parties and interviews. Haymitch is right, it was devastating to hold her hand, kiss her, hear her talk about how in love she was, knowing it was all a lie. Knowing every word, kiss and touch was real for me. When it all finally died down and we went our separate ways, I avoided her as much as I could. My heart was broken and I just couldn’t bear it. Then, on the first quiet Sunday, I was in the Hob trying to spread some money around. An older woman was selling some family trinkets and I chose a pin I thought Lila, Jasper’s fiancée, might like. The woman was going home after the sale and mentioned she had trouble seeing in the fading light, so I offered to help her home. As we made our way around, I saw Katniss and Gale emerge from under the fence. They spoke for a moment and then Gale left, but not before he took her face between his hands and kissed her. She had sunk down next to the tree and sat there, eyes closed as the sun set behind the trees. Watching, frozen, my broken heart had shattered.

Now, I look steadily at the painting of that moment. I’ve been unfair. When my name was drawn from the reaping ball, I’d never expected to come home, but had hoped she would. I’d decided to do whatever I could to make that happen. In the arena the crush I’d always had on her had turned into real love, and I’d wanted nothing more than for her to live, to make it back and have a long and happy life with her family. Now she’s here, she has that chance. And even more, she has a chance to be in love, to have a family of her own. She has a chance to be happy. It is everything I would hope for her. Finally, after long months of darkness, I feel the weight lift from my heart. She doesn’t love me. But I love her, and I want for her only happiness. I was willing to die for her, is it more to ask that I step aside for her? It’s time to let her go.

Silently, I turn to the paintings of the Games and bundle them out to the living room. The prep team will be here soon, with Portia and Effie and the cameras and Katniss. It’s time to be ready to put my game face on.


	3. Chapter Three

Stepping out of the shower, I hear the front door slam and boots stomping. Inside the foyer. That will be Eirik and Carney. They have been ridiculously excited to come watch me “get pretty” for the train ride. I wonder how they found out the right time? I’d lied and told them an hour too late, they must have talked to Prim, dang it. Well, what did I fight my way home for, if not to amuse my friends?

“Hey! Baker Man!” they holler up the stairs, before clattering up to join me. I snug the belt of a robe on just as they pile through the bedroom door. Carney scans the room hopefully and his smile fades when he sees we are alone.

“Did we miss it?” he cries tragically. Eirik punches his shoulder and points at my damp hair.

“Yeah, this is the look they’re going with. It took hours,” he snarks.

Carney brightens and rubs his hands together gleefully. “Will they do the electric paddle thing on your face, do you think?” he asks, with what I consider to be too much joy at anticipating my pain.

“Doubt it,” I say, crushing his hopes, “just a shave for today, I bet. If you’re really nice, though, I’ll let you watch my manicure.”

Before he can protest my escaping torture, I hear car doors slamming outside and we head down to meet them. Both teams have arrived and I can hear them greeting each other cheerily before my doorbell rings. I open the front door and am almost bowled over by Junius when he practically throws himself on my chest. Selt and Lyra are right behind him and rounds of introductions and hugging and laughing fill the next few minutes. They are so pleased to see me, to meet my friends, to look through my house, I feel a warm glow spread through my chest. These people I know I should hate, feel more like friends.

Upstairs, they bundle me into a deep, richly foaming soak while Lyra begins to massage a creamy lotion into my face. Carney, perched on the counter, snorts and asks if I feel like a princess.

“Almost,” I murmur, my muscles relaxing as Lyra’s strong fingers work their way down my neck and shoulders. “Junius,” I say lightly, “Carney was curious about how the electrolysis paddles work. Do you have time to show him?”

“Oh my, yes!” Junius twitters. “I have them right here!” And before Carney can escape, Junius has him cornered, the snapping, zinging paddles raised like embracing arms. Eirik and I howl with laughter when Carney shrieks as the paddles shoot sparks a foot across. Junius grins wickedly and winks at me.

By the time the team has finished with me, Eirik and Carney have both been beautified as well and are preening and strutting around the living room when Portia knocks lightly before letting herself in. The warm feeling I’ve been floating on bursts out in a wide smile and I wrap her in a tight hug. Laughing, she squeezes me back, then looks intently into my eyes, her green gaze surprised.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m good,” I tell her honestly. “It’s really great to see you. These are my friends I’ve told you about.” I pull Eirik forward for an introduction and he shakes her hand with a bright smile and a nice compliment about how much she helped me in the Games.

“And this is Carney,” I say, turning to see him looking frozen. Curious, I follow his eyes to see him fixated on Portia, a look of dazed fascination on his face.

Eirik bumps him forward and he stammers, “Uh, I- you- you’re tall,” before flushing bright red. “I mean pretty!” he gasps. “I mean smart!”

A wide smile lights Portia’s eyes and she runs her finger down his cheek, eliciting a visible tremor. “You’re sweet,” she purrs. “How old are you, darling?”

His jaw goes slack and he mumbles, “Seven- seventeen. And a half!”

Portia clicks her tongue and sighs, “Oh, for that other half,” and winks slowly at him before turning to me, the mirth bright in her gaze.

Eirik, shaking his head, pushes Carney toward me. They both hug me good-bye and stumble back out into the cold, where I see Carney spread his arms wide and flop backward into the snowy grass, a huge grin on his face.

“Sorry, love,” Portia apologizes, giggling. “He’s adorable, though, isn’t he?”

“Adorable,” I agree, rolling my eyes.

“They really love you, don’t they?” she asks kindly. “And Carney is okay?”

When I’d first returned, Carney had been skittish and oddly stand-offish around me. When I finally cornered him about it, he said he had trouble recognizing me. That the Peeta he knew would never have been able to hurt, let alone kill, anyone and, while he understood, it was hard for him to reconcile. At first, his words had cut me deeply, but, after long nights of serious talks, his conversations had helped me to come to terms with it myself. In trying to explain my actions him, as much as I could, I was able to explain them to myself as well. I feel less like a villain now, I’m able to feel like a changed version of myself, but still myself.

“Yeah,” I tell her with a smile, “he’s more than okay. Be expecting some phone calls from him when I get back.”

“Do not give him my number!” she exclaims, laughing. “I don’t want to lead any lambs to slaughter.” Her voice falters and she reaches for my hand. “Speaking of which, you seem to feel better, too. Are you doing all right?”

I snort at the metaphor but squeeze her hand back. “I am,” I tell her. “Haymitch gave me the whatfor and I finally realized I’ve been looking at it wrong all this time.”

Portia raises her brows questioningly. “Have you?”

“I have,” I nod. “I’ve been missing the big picture. She’s home and safe and has a chance at a happy life. What else could I possibly ask for? It’s all I want.”

Shaking her head, Portia stares intently into my eyes. “You are too much,” she says softly, before grabbing me and wrapping her arms tightly around me. “Some girl out there is going to be so very lucky someday, Peeta.”

I smile my thanks, but don’t pursue the point. “So, what is this amazing catch wearing for the trip to the train?” I ask.

She smiles broadly and gestures to the garment bags draped over the furniture. Hustling upstairs we surprise the prep team who are still giggling over Eirik and Carney as they pack up. It turns out Selt has a bit of a crush on Eirik and Lyra won’t let him live it down. Portia laughs and tells them about teasing Carney, sending them all into gales of laughter. Junius squeezes my arm and sighs dreamily.

“All three of you could be married off by spring,” he smiles, and I only feel a pang, rather than the full-blown stab of grief I would have endured yesterday. I smile back and tell him Katniss’ mother would hang me by my toes if I suggested such a thing.

The four of them get me ready for the cameras, wearing soft black pants and a sweater in grays and blacks over a white shirt. Portia has gone back to cutting my pants snugly, easing them over the prosthetic, but not hiding it anymore. Junius fusses with my hair after pulling the sweater over it, fluffing and smoothing until I duck away, laughing.

“Enough! You know Portia is going to put a hat on it, anyway!”

Smiling mischievously, she shakes her head at me, “Guess again,” she says mysteriously, her hands behind her back. My smile falters and dies when she whips out a pair of what can only be described as fluffy earmuffs.

“No.” I shake my head adamantly. “No way.”

I’m reprieved when the camera crew ask me to come film the voiceover spots for the paintings and I glower darkly at Portia as we head back downstairs. It takes only a few minutes; I describe some techniques, make up some nonsense about what inspires my painting, and pose next to a few of the panels. Then it’s time to leave. I manage to avoid the earmuffs but am wrapped in a warm woolen coat and the cameraman is counting down for me before opening the door. On his silent one count, he swings open the door and Portia pats my back as I step outside into the swirling snow.

Katniss and I reach the green at the same time, and she’s smiling as though as she hasn’t seen me in weeks, in full fake romance mode. She breaks into a run and launches herself into my arms, burying her face in my neck. I swing her off her feet, but my leg betrays me and we go down in a heap in the snow. She gazes down at me for a split-second, then, for the first time in months, tips her mouth to meet mine. The kiss is bittersweet, recalling the familiar racing pulse and tightening in my chest, the hunger she awakens in me. I close my eyes against the memories.

Laughing, she pulls me to my feet and tucks her hand possessively in my arm. We smile and wave to the cameras, happy victors off on a whirlwind tour of the districts to end in a spectacular ball at the mansion of President Snow himself, before returning in triumph to a homecoming festival and a joyful ever after. The car ride is silent except for Effie’s ebullient chatter. She’s thrilled to be looking forward to the balls and parties and recognition of her part in the feat that was last year’s Games. Haymitch and Katniss are quiet and withdrawn while Cinna and Portia talk in low voices. I watch the district pass by outside the window; the town, the Seam, the fence, until we pull up at the train station. My home, my entire life, in such a short time. So small.

A few more poses for the cameras and then we’re rushing into the woods toward District 11. I’m looking for a chance to talk to Katniss alone, but she is distracted and clings to Cinna’s side. I understand completely, being back on the train is haunting and brings buried feelings seething to the surface. I feel a heaviness, like a sense of dread, and a touch of paranoia is setting in. Even the amazing meal doesn’t help me shake it off, I feel the Games pulling us back in.

After dinner I excuse myself to my room, it’s too weird being on the train and I’m getting jittery. I try soaking in a deep, hot bath, but I still feel antsy and restless. I pull on a shirt and shorts, then sit on the bed massaging my leg, though the stiffness is more imagined than actual pain. Turning out the light, I lie back, trying to let the rocking hum soothe me to sleep. It’s no good. The extravagant food and plush décor are too familiar, bring up too many associations. I reach for my artificial leg and when my hand closes around it, I pause, staring at it. I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels insidious. Like the Capitol is morphing me, changing me to become something of theirs. I haven’t had thoughts like this in months, the tour is messing with my head.

I shrug into a robe and step out into the hall. The train hurtles through the black night, rocking and humming its way toward the Capitol where we’ll be consumed. They take every part of us as their own, every fear and triumph, every thought and word, every glance and move is hoarded by their greedy, hollow fingers and devoured in place of their own empty, silly lives. I watch the darkness outside the window and imagine them as a nest of spiders, drawing us near again when we so nearly didn’t escape last time. My hand itches for my paints, but they are nowhere near. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and close my eyes against the bubbling fear rising inside me. Drawing a deep breath, I clench my fists and force myself to breathe calmly, to control the trapped feeling starting to claw at me. Going back to my room is unthinkable, and I begin to pace the hallway. The walking helps, some activity, some control. My thoughts become less chaotic and I feel my heartbeat starting to slow. Up and down, up and down, the length of the train from end to end. I stop in the last car, the huge retractable windows showing a panoramic view of the blurring countryside rushing past under the stars. I press my hand to the glass, gazing up at the sparkling brilliance above us. The train slows to a stop and as the forward motion stills, the anxiety lightens in me as well. I finally feel ready to go back to my room and step out into the dim hallway.

“Sorry, he’s drunk,” I hear Katniss apologize at an open door about halfway down. “I’ll get him,” and she hops out. I see her follow Haymitch along the tracks and I watch to see if she needs help. They trudge through the snow past the end of the train and he suddenly turns and they talk. She seems fine, and he doesn’t look aggressive, I think they’re just talking. Odd, but definitely private. I head back to my room and shrug out of my robe in the dark, lying down on the plush bed and closing my eyes wearily. The blackness pulls me under and I sleep, dreaming of webs and hungry spiders.


	4. Chapter Four

I wake feeling stiff and gritty. Lying in bed staring at the ceiling I try to gather the strength to start the day. We’ll be in District 11 today, home to Thresh and Rue. I’m not sure how I’ll face their families, how to acknowledge that Katniss and I came home and their children didn’t, but we feel their pain, honor their loss. Rue’s family watched me help to set the trap that killed her, and now they’re expected to cheer when I stand in front of them, celebrate my victory. Thresh had Katniss at his mercy, and spared her. How can I ever repay debts like these?

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I pull myself up to sit in bed and reach for my sketchbook. Quick, neat strokes and the picture begins to take form, my first real memory of the two of them. Rue, tiny and apprehensive but trying to be brave, peeking around the reassuring bulk of her partner tribute, strong and silent Thresh, in the training center the first day. So young, the pair of them. I add necklaces of flowers to both of them, just as Katniss did in the arena for Rue, and I whisper my apologies again. Taking up the notecards Effie has left for me, I begin to write down some ideas I can say to the assembly in 11. There is nothing I can say that will help, but I have to tell them that I am grateful, that I understand the debt I owe.

Repaying debt. How do you repay such a debt? Of course, you can’t. Quietly, an idea begins to form in my mind. I look around guiltily as though my thoughts can be read. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that, not only is it the right choice, but I will definitely be forbidden from doing it if anyone hears about it. I wonder if I should consult Katniss, but I am so certain she will agree with me, the risk of being found out doesn’t even seem worth talking about it before the fact. I jump with a guilty start at the sharp rap on the door.

Junius pops his head around and grins, “Are you decent? Well, as decent as a backwoods hick can be without my professional help?”

“Come on in,” I smile, placing the sketchbook back on the nightstand as my prep team rolls into action. They are moving a little slowly this morning, I think they are accustomed to rising much later in the day. I must be in for the full treatment today. Sure enough, Selt places a tray of breakfast on the table and swings a napkin around my throat.

“You’re eating on the run today,” he says in his soft, musical voice. “I got you hot chocolate, though, and orange juice. Is there anything else you think you’ll want?”

I peruse the laden tray, toast and eggs, ham and fruit, the lamb stew Katniss loves, and a mound of fried potatoes. I can’t imagine another kind of food existing and I grin into Selt’s apologetic eyes.

“This is amazing. All I can think of is three more forks. You guys will have to help me get through all this, okay?” He smiles back and nods, disappearing back into the hallway. When he returns, we fall on the tray and my jitters from the day before are eased by their sunny chatter. They are all talk about the ceremonies at each of the districts, excited to see the differences in each of the celebrations. I hadn’t given it enough thought before, but the citizens of the Capitol are as isolated from the way others live as we are in the districts. Life in the districts is just as exotic and foreign to my team as their strange customs and lifestyles are to me. I have no idea what life in 11 is like, except for the little Katniss passed on from her conversations with Rue. I wonder with my team what we will find when we get there.

After a series of soaks and scrubs, Junius is content with the neck down and starts to work on my face and hair. We all laugh when the electrolysis paddles come out, though me probably a little less heartily than the others. After a nasty half-hour, Lyra massages a cooling balm into my stinging face and her eyes grow misty as she watches me in the mirror.

“You look so much better,” she murmurs softly, her hands lingering on my jaw.

“You guys are miracle workers,” I smile.

She shakes her head, “No, I mean you,” she says, sounding choked up. “When you came back from the arena,” her voice scratches and she gratefully takes the hand Selt offers. “You were so broken,” she continues in a low voice. “I thought- I thought maybe you would-” She gulps and smiles at my reflection in the mirror. “But you had Katniss,” she says radiantly. “You made it through because of her.”

My smile feels like cardboard and I nod automatically. It’s true though, that’s what gave me the drive to pull through those first few days. Starving, having lost so much blood, and then the surgery when I got out, I almost didn’t come through it all. But knowing Katniss was waiting for me at the end of it kept me fighting. My pulse quickens and I feel a sudden, powerful urge to go to her, to be with her and, overwhelmingly, to protect her. From this train, this tour, this whole situation. She needs me right now and I’m not there for her.

“Are we okay here?” I ask, starting up, and even I can see the manic edge in my eyes. The team nods, sharing smiles and ushering me out the door.

“Go get her,” Junius winks, and I nod my thanks.

Out in the corridor, I pace up and down, looking for her, but she’s nowhere to be found. I finally track down Effie coming out of her room and she tells me Katniss is still with her team. Frustrated, I politely offer to escort Effie to lunch, an offer she accepts with delight. We join Cinna and Portia in the dining car, they look tired but greet us cheerfully. They’ve been up all night organizing our outfits, everything from travelling clothes to ball gowns to hats and gloves. They seem happily exhausted and join Effie in her bright chatter about the amazing ball waiting for us in the Capitol. Haymitch appears in the doorway, scowling at the company as though he may retreat again, but Effie chirpily calls for him to join us and pours him a cup of strong coffee. He slumps into a chair and reaches for a muffin he begins to pick at absentmindedly. I wonder if he’s just his usual grumpy self since he never sleeps at night, or if his late night conversation with Katniss has put him in this foul mood.

Just as I have the thought, she walks through the door. Her team have definitely been busy, she’s breathtaking. Even though I prefer the simple, natural look she keeps at home, the way I know her best, there’s no denying she looks gorgeous. Her dark hair hangs in shining waves past her shoulders, and her gray eyes are lined with black to intensify their clear beauty. But they are also troubled, and she seems intent on avoiding my gaze. She doesn’t eat, just fiddling with a bowl of broth, evading people’s efforts to draw her into the conversation. I don’t know if she’s so uncomfortable with me, now that we have to play the smitten pair again, or if something else is on her mind. Whatever it is, she dragged Haymitch outside in the snow last night to talk about it, I feel sure. I kick myself for being so selfish. She badly needs someone’s help and I’d been so wrapped up in my own hurt I wasn’t there for her.

The train shudders oddly and crawls to a stop. Our server disappears into the hallway and Effie begins making distressed sounds about the schedule. When the server returns a moment later with the news that we are going to have to wait for a part to be replaced, at least an hour delay, Effie begins twittering about the impact on the events we have lined up. Cinna and Portia speak to her in low voices, offering suggestions and trying to help, but she won’t be comforted and her stressed voice is pitching higher as she winds herself up.

“No one cares, Effie!” Katniss barks out of nowhere. Everyone stops and stares at her, amazed by the outburst. Her cheeks redden and she drops her eyes, “Well, no one does!” she insists stubbornly, and shoves her chair back from the table, stomping out of the car.

We look back and forth at each other in surprise for a minute, and Effie’s lashes sparkle with tears. When we hear a door alarm begin to wail Cinna pushes back his chair and rises to follow her.

“Hang on,” Haymitch puts out a hand to stop him. “Peeta should go.”

I look up from where I’m stroking Effie’s hand, trying to comfort her. I eye him quizzically, shaking my head doubtfully. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “She might not want me.”

Haymitch brushes aside my protestations and waves me after her. “Go, take care of her.”

The phrase pulls at my heart and I’m lost, and not at all sure he didn’t know that would happen when he chose his words. I smile apologetically at Effie. “She’s under so much pressure,” I say softly. “You know she adores you, and is so grateful for everything you do for us. We both are. We’d be lost without you.” Her light blue eyes lift to mine and she sniffs daintily. She nods and I smile and wink at her. “You’re a saint,” I say, lifting her hand to my lips. The corner of her mouth quirks up in a half-smile and she pushes me toward the door.

I drop down next to the tracks and scan along the train. I can see her, past the cars, sitting on the rails, her eyes on the horizon. My arms ache to hold her, to take whatever burden she is carrying. But that’s not my place anymore. As I walk down the tracks toward her, I’m reminded of the last time I took a walk like this with her. I will do better this time, I promise myself.

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” she growls without looking up.

“I’ll try to keep it brief,” I tell her, lowering myself to sit next to her.

Her back stiffens, but her tone is softer. “I thought you were Haymitch,” she says apologetically.

“No, he’s still working on that muffin,” I say lightly, easing my artificial leg out straight in front of me and rubbing absently at my thigh. “Bad day, huh?”

“It’s nothing,” she says hollowly. She looks so forlorn, so alone. I can’t believe I’ve let it come to this. All I’ve ever wanted was to be there for her, and now, I’m right next to her and she feels completely on her own because of how I’ve acted.

“Look, Katniss,” I begin awkwardly. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the way I acted on the train. I mean the last train. The one that brought us home.” My thoughts skitter pointlessly as I grow anxious. “I knew you had something with Gale,” I plunge ahead. “I was jealous of him before I even officially met you. And it wasn’t fair to hold you to anything that happened in the Games.” She’s looking at me in surprise. “I’m sorry,” I finish, hoping she can hear how much I mean it.

“I’m sorry too,” she responds, almost automatically, but I shake my head. This wasn’t her fault, this was mine.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” I tell her firmly. “You were just keeping us alive. But I don’t want us to go on like this,” I say, holding her clear gray gaze intently. “Ignoring each other in real life and falling into the snow every time there’s a camera around.” I take a deep breath and feel the flush creeping up my cheeks at the memory of the kiss. “So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded,” I grimace, “we could take a shot at just being friends.”

She holds my eyes steadily for a minute, and it looks like she’s relieved, like she would welcome the chance to be on speaking terms again.

“Okay,” she agrees softly and I smile with relief, silently vowing to do better by her.

“So, what’s wrong?” I ask. But she looks away, not ready to share it yet. “Let’s start with something more basic,” I suggest. “Isn’t it strange that I know you’d risk your life to save mine,” a vision of her lying in that pool of blood flashes behind my eyes and I suppress a shiver, “but I don’t know what your favorite color is?” I finish lightly. 

She smiles slightly and looks at me sideways. “Green,” she answers. “What’s yours?”

“Orange,” I say without question, picturing the soft glow over the trees in our woods.

 

“Orange?” she snorts. “Like Effie’s hair?”

I laugh, picturing her perilous wig. “A bit more muted,” I say diplomatically. “More like…sunset.”

She watches me intently for a second and I feel a gentle glow spread through my veins. I can see her accepting my friendship, relaxing and trusting it. She looks like she’s about to say something, but changes her mind at the last second.

“You know,” she says abruptly, “everyone’s always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven’t seen them.”

I stand and reach down to help her up. “Well, I’ve got a whole train car full,” I say. “Come on.”

We walk back to the train and I’m consumed by how right it feels to have her hand in mine. The connection I’ve always felt with her made solid and physical. I feel a clicking over, like a clock beginning to keep time. This is how it’s supposed to be. In whatever capacity it may be, Katniss Everdeen is a part of me, and I will never let her down again.

When I hand her up the steps she pauses. “I’ve got to apologize to Effie first,” she says guiltily.

I nod. “Don’t be afraid to lay it on thick.” I don’t think there is a “too thick” in this case.

We head for the dining car where Katniss apologizes profusely and Effie accepts graciously. Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me questioningly and I give a small nod. He nods in return, looking relieved, then goes back to his bottle. As soon as we’re able to escape, Katniss and I head down the corridor to the compartment devoted to our talent showings. Trunks of clothes are piled together, and I wonder absently how much Cinna adjusted his brilliance to pass them off as Katniss’ amateur work. My paintings are further back, leaning up against the walls in neat stacks. Katniss flips through, her eyes round with surprise. She pauses occasionally to examine one closely, some she passes over quickly, as though avoiding the memory. I watch her nervously, until I can’t stand it any longer.

“What do you think?” I ask softly.

“I hate them,” she says bluntly, but without malice. She turns to look at me curiously. “All I do is go around trying to forget the arena and you’ve brought it back to life. How do you remember these things so exactly?”

“I see them every night,” I admit quietly.

She nods her understanding, returning to the canvases. “Me, too,” she says, her eyes on the paintings. “Does it help?” She turns back to look at me as though I have a lifeline while she is drowning in an ocean.  “To paint them out?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I think I’m a little less afraid to go to sleep at night, or I tell myself I am,” I say resignedly. I think of the vault where I store my horror and shame, denying my fears in the daylight, only to be terrorized when they burst their way out at night. “But they haven’t gone anywhere,” I say, looking at the dark and threatening visions all around me.

“Maybe they won’t,” she says. “Haymitch’s haven’t.”

“No,” I agree. “But for me, it’s better to wake up with a paint brush than a knife in my hand.” I continue to look over the paintings, trying to feel I have some power over them. “So you really hate them?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies adamantly. “But they’re extraordinary. Really.” She gives a small shake of her head to dismiss the dark thoughts and turns to me with a sly smile. “Want to see my talent? Cinna did a great job on it.”

I grin at her. “Later,” I reply as the train heaves into motion again. “Come on, we’re almost to District 11, let’s go take a look at it.”

We head for the last car and I press the button to retract the giant windows so we’re whipped by the warm breeze and all the smells and sounds surround us. We laugh and wrinkle our noses at the overpowering stench as we pass herds of dairy cattle grazing in the green, expansive fields. As the train slows we peer around the side to see if we’re arriving, but a truly gigantic fence looms up instead. It’s huge, capped with vicious barbed wire and metal plates along the bottom and armed guard towers spaced along the perimeter. No one leaves District 11 without permission.

I give a low whistle and murmur, “That’s something different,” thinking of our ragged, chinky fence back home.

We pass by workers of all ages, sweating in the heat, tending crops. Orchards appear dimly near the horizon and scattered clusters of ragged shacks are spaced out in what looks like random placing. We just keep going, passing field after field, all packed with bent, busy workers.

“How many people do you think live here?” I ask in amazement, unable to grasp what I’m seeing. Our district is maybe 10,000 people all told, but we wouldn’t fill a corner of this vast district.

Effie comes to call us in to get changed for the ceremony. She exclaims over our windblown hair and hustles us into our rooms for the prep teams to undo the damage we’ve done. When she’s satisfied we’re presentable, she sits us down to go over the agenda.

We’ll be in the square in front of the ramshackle Justice Building. After our introductions, the mayor will give a speech, and then Katniss and I will offer our thanks, handily supplied by the Capitol scribes. Because we knew Rue and Thresh it is expected we’ll have some personal remarks as well. Katniss looks desperate and I offer to do some quick edits so my cards will work for both of us. We’ll get a plaque or trophy or something and then dinner. Sounds simple, but Katniss and I grip each other’s hands anxiously as we pull into the station. Cinna and Portia make some last minute fussy changes and then we’ve arrived.

Effie is affronted by the lack of welcoming committee, instead a troop of Peacekeepers hustle us into an armored truck and we’re rumbling to the back entrance of the Justice Building. We barely have time to glance around as we’re prodded toward the front entrance where we can hear the anthem blaring outside. I shiver as I always do when I hear it now, and reach for Katniss’ hand, anchoring myself in the present. Sunlight floods through the huge doors as they creak open and Effie gives us a shove out through them.

We walk stiffly to the top of the marble stairs while the crowd applauds, but they make no other sound. No cheering, no whistles. It’s eerie. At the bottom of the stairs, on a special platform, stand the families of the fallen tributes. They huddle into each other, a tall, strong girl and bent old woman on Thresh’s side, a crowd of small children around grieving parents on Rue’s. Katniss begins to tremble and I hold her hand tightly, wishing I could wrap my arms around her and shield her from this.

The mayor gives his speech mechanically, sounding hollow. Like our mayor, he has made this speech too many times. Two tiny girls present us with gigantic bouquets of flowers and I automatically form the words to the thank you, not needing to think about what I’m saying, while my eyes scan the crowd for the district’s past victors. I know of at least one survivor, he’s a friend of Haymitch, but I don’t see anyone I would think could be him. It seems odd. Katniss has finished her speech as well and I step forward to share our personal remarks.

I pause, gathering my thoughts, and then I begin, addressing my comments to the families, no one else. I tell them how incredible it was that tiny Rue and solitary Thresh made it to the final eight, how clever and strong and independent they were to make it that far. I say how grateful I am that they did, because those two people kept Katniss alive. And I wouldn’t be alive without her, so they saved two lives in the arena. I speak to the families, telling them their children saved my life, and I will never forget the debt I owe for that. I take a breath, tightening my grip on Katniss’ hand.

“It can in no way replace your losses,” I say. “But as a token of our thanks we’d like for each of the tribute’s families from District 11 to receive one month of our winnings every year for the duration of our lives.” It’s done. Katniss stares up at me in surprise and I meet her eyes steadily, trying to smile though my heart is breaking for the shocked and grieving families on the platform. Katniss grips the front of my jacket and lifts her face to mine, staring deeply into my eyes as she kisses me softly.

The mayor, clearly worried and unsure how to handle the breach in protocol, hands us each a huge plaque and the applause, scattered and confused, ripples through the restless crowd, signaling the end of the ceremony.

“Wait!” Katniss cries, “Wait, please!” She trembles at the top of the steps, gasping for words to express her thanks, her sorrow. She honors first Thresh, and then, wrenchingly, Rue. Her voice breaks and quivers, but she fights through to the end. “Thank you for your children,” she says to the families, and, to the crowd, “And thank you all for the bread.”

Her voice rings over the square and the citizens receive it silently, gratefully. She stands before them, her head bowed. Somewhere out in the throng, Rue’s homecoming whistle rises liltingly through the silence. Then, in perfect unison, every single person present presses the three fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds them out to Katniss. The final good-bye she offered to Rue in the arena. A shiver ripples over my skin and I put my arm around her, she seems dazed and I lead her back toward the building. She stops and grips my arm for support.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Just dizzy,” she mutters. “The sun was too bright.” She looks up, distressed. “I forgot my flowers.”

“I’ll get them,” I offer, starting back.

“I can,” she says. She’s just brushing past me when I grab her arm, pulling her to a stop in the shady cover of the verandah. Two Peacekeepers have the old man who whistled on his knees at the top of the steps. In front of the crowd, they put a gun against his temple and pull the trigger.


	5. Chapter Five

A crush of armed Peacekeepers closes in on us, pressing us backward into the building. Katniss is frozen in shock and a soldier is using his weapon to thrust her toward the doors. I leap forward and shove him off her.

“We’re going!” I snarl. “We get it, all right?” I glare into his face until he backs away from her and I gather her close to me, keeping my body between her and their weapons as I usher her back inside. “Come on, Katniss,” I say more gently, trying to wake her from her daze. The doors thump closed behind us and the others, waiting anxiously beneath a screen showing the static of a cut feed, spin to face us. Haymitch looks bleak but Effie trips over to us aggrievedly.

“What happened?” she flutters. “We lost the feed just after Katniss’ beautiful speech, and then Haymitch said he thought he heard a gun fire, and I said it was ridiculous, but who knows? There are lunatics everywhere!”

Her voice is keening higher and her eyes are starting to look frantic. “Nothing happened, Effie,” I soothe. “An old truck backfired.”

From outside, two more shots ring clearly through the square. I flinch at each one. Who just died because of us?

Haymitch snaps into action. “Both of you. With me.” Cinna and Portia turn to engage Effie in conversation while Katniss and I hurry to keep up with Haymitch who is striding up a sweeping staircase. On the next floor we follow a long hall into a gigantic, battered old reception room where our evening clothes are laid out for us. Katniss and I drop our plaques onto a ratty old sofa and Haymitch snatches the microphones from our chests, shoving them under a cushion before gesturing for us to continue with him down the hall again. We bumble along behind him, up creaking staircases, down dusty hallways and through doors he throws his shoulder against to force open. In a dark, tiny room he peers around suspiciously before pulling down a folding ladder and ushering us up it, through a sticking trapdoor into the dome of the Justice Building. I’ll never know how he found this place, but it’s evident no one has been here in quite a long time. It’s like a fairy-tale land of lost items. Everything from rusting weapons to trunks of old clothes to business ledgers bursting with tax receipts are layered with a deep coating of dust.

Haymitch turns to us and hisses urgently, “What happened?”

Katniss is still looking dazed and I watch her anxiously as I quickly fill in the events for Haymitch. I try to remember everything that happened since her speech; how the old man had whistled Rue’s call and the citizens all saluted Katniss, how it seemed spontaneous but was so oddly unanimous, Katniss starting to go back for her flowers so we were still on the verandah when they shot the man who’d whistled. Nodding grimly, Haymitch listens carefully, but doesn’t seem shocked.

“What’s going on, Haymitch?” I demand.

To my surprise he turns to Katniss. “It will be better coming from you,” he prompts her.

She eyes me warily, but then words begin to spill out. I listen in rising shocked disbelief as she lays out a clandestine seditious plot beginning with us threatening to take the nightlock in the arena and ending with war against the Capitol. She tells me President Snow himself showed up, in her house, blaming her actions for turmoil in several districts. She says he threatened her family and even Gale, since he somehow knew about the time Gale had kissed her and it threatens the storyline of she and I as a couple. She says when she pulled out the berries in the arena, defying the Capitol, she lit a spark that has set fire all across Panem, setting the stage for a new uprising, a new Dark Times.

“I was supposed to fix things on this tour,” she chokes wretchedly. “Make everyone who had doubted believe I acted out of love. Calm things down. But obviously, all I’ve done today is get three people killed, and now everyone in the square will be punished.” She looks nauseous and sinks onto the couch behind her.

My head is spinning with the implications. What have I done? What did I just sentence the tributes’ families to?

“Then I made things worse, too,” I say. “By giving the money.”

Not only that, but if I hadn’t, would Katniss not have been moved to make a speech? Would the salute, now I can see it for what it was, an act of solidarity with her in defiance of the Capitol, never have happened? I cringe away from the knowledge of what must be happening outside. How could I have known? But Katniss and Haymitch, they knew. Ever since the victory. I remember on the train home, Katniss said he was coaching her from the instant we arrived from the arena. They’ve known this ever since we came out of there, have been plotting and scheming together and never once thought to fill me in on what was going on. And now at least three more innocent people are dead because of it.

Fury boils up and I lash out at a lamp sitting next to me, sending it crashing across the room. “This has to stop,” I grind out. “Right now. This- this- game you two play, where you tell each other secrets but keep them from me like I’m too inconsequential or stupid or weak to handle them.”

“It’s not like that, Peeta-” Katniss starts trying to justify it.

“It’s exactly like that!” I roar at her, the rage at their selfishness glowing hot behind my eyes. She fights and claws to keep Prim safe, but gives me no chance to protect Jasper, my father? “I have people I care about, too, Katniss! Family and friends back in District 12 who will be just as dead as yours if we don’t pull this thing off.” I stare at her contemptuously, wrath seething in my gut, spurred on by the horror of what just happened. We fought and almost died for each other, and this is how she sees us now? “So, after all we went through in the arena, don’t I even rate the truth from you?” I spit.

“You’re always so reliably good, Peeta,” Haymitch tries to reason. “So smart about how you present yourself before the cameras. I didn’t want to disrupt that.”

I snort a manic laugh. “Well, you overestimated me,” I sneer. “Because I really screwed up today.” The image of the old man’s blood spraying over the cold marble strobes behind my eyes and I imagine Rue’s father being next. Was one of the shots Thresh’s sister? What have I done? Panic claws its way up my chest and I turn imploring eyes to Haymitch. “What do you think is going to happen to Rue’s and Thresh’s families?” I demand. “Do you think they’ll get their share of our winnings? Do you think I gave them a bright future? Because I think they’ll be lucky if they survive the day!” I hurl a statue against the wall, the shrieking crash echoing the howl inside my head.

“He’s right, Haymitch,” Katniss says in a small voice. “We were wrong not to tell him. Even back in the Capitol.”

Her conspiratorial use of “we” screeches over my wrought nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I was wrong, Katniss did have a partner in the arena. It just wasn’t me. I was the one who was alone.

“Even in the arena, you two had some sort of system worked out didn’t you?” The heaviness of it settles onto me. The completeness of my exclusion. “Something I wasn’t part of.”

“No. Not officially,” she stutters lamely. “I just could tell what Haymitch wanted me to do by what he sent, or didn’t send.”

“Well, I never had that opportunity,” I respond bitterly. “Because he never sent me anything until you showed up.”

She colors and drops her eyes while Haymitch starts, “Look, boy-”

I cut him off. “Don’t bother, Haymitch. I know you had to choose one of us. And I’d have wanted it to be her.”

I stare into his cold, gray eyes. He has to hear me now, this can’t go on. I’m not speaking out of hurt or rejection, they need to stop treating this as some exciting secret they get to hoard. “But this is something different. People are dead out there.” I pause, a heavy sadness pulling at me. I’m so very exhausted by all the death, and I can see we aren’t through with it. “More will follow unless we’re very good. We all know I’m better than Katniss in front of the cameras. No one needs to coach me on what to say. But I have to know what I’m walking into,” I demand. I can’t even look at Katniss. Haymitch doesn’t owe my anything, I can take the betrayal from him. That she would put my family at such risk without even a word of warning to me is indefensible.

“From now on, you’ll be fully informed,” he agrees.

“I better be,” I say, and turn away, leaving them together in the filthy, secret dome.

Seething, I wind my way back to the reception room and into the small adjoining apartment readied for me to shower and change. Portia is there, setting out the tie for my jacket. She turns and watches me carefully, shaking her head silently, a cue not to speak. I nod weary acceptance and she squeezes my hand. I close the bathroom door and lean against it, staring into the mirror blankly, trying to come to grips with everything I’ve just learned. Tossing my clothes into a pile, I step into the shower and wish the sputtering, sporadic hot water could wash away the filthy feeling of guilt and betrayal.

When I come out of the bathroom Portia is gone, but in her place Haymitch is sprawled in a moth-eaten chair. He looks like he’s positively itching for a bottle and I ignore him while pulling on my shorts and undershirt. Scrubbing the towel over my hair I finally turn to him.

“What is it?” I ask shortly. “And I warn you, if you try and say it wasn’t her fault…” I stop before I say something that might be dangerous if overheard.

He smiles wryly. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Damn it, Haymitch!” I hurl my towel on the floor and glare at him. “Stop acting like you’re playing some cutesy game! Think about what is happening right now. And when we get home-”

I pull up short when the full weight of what I just said crashes over me. My lungs feel empty and I can’t draw breath. I stare wide-eyed at Haymitch, and I see the pity in his gray gaze. This doesn’t end when the cameras leave after our homecoming. Every year, they’ll be back. And we’ll be on display. Every year for the rest of our lives. And they’ll expect the natural progression of such an all-consuming passion that the lovers would poison themselves rather than bend to the will of the Gamemakers. My chest feels hollowed out as the bleak future unrolls before me, gray and void, an empty mockery of the life I thought I was gifted with just a few months ago.

My legs give out and I sink onto the couch. Tears sting behind my eyes. It’s too much. “Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper.

He just nods silently. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” he says ironically. I hear the understanding in his voice. There is no way out.  “It wasn’t her fault,” he repeats gently. “I told her to keep quiet. I knew you were completely gone for her, I didn’t know if you could do it.” He’s trying to keep his comments innocuous, but his meaning is clear. His voice drops and he leans in, every line of him radiating intensity. “You can’t be a threat. Even seem to be one. They will wreck you just to show you they can.”

I look at him with clear eyes for maybe the first time. It’s more than what he had to do in the arena that has ruined him. It’s more than sending two kids to their deaths every year. It’s even more than having to look their parents in the eye every day back home. The Capitol has intentionally broken him.

“What did they take from you?” I ask quietly.

He simply shrugs. “Everything.”

A shudder runs through me, the thought of how much I have to lose flashing through my head. He smiles mirthlessly. “You, though, you’re different. Usually they destroy you by taking everything you have. They’ve decided to punish you by giving you everything you ever wanted.” He stands and stretches, “I need a drink. See you at dinner.”

He leaves me alone in the rundown apartment. I look despairingly around at the shabby, broken version of what should be rich and luxurious and I sink my head into my hands. I am fully informed, just as I asked.

A blurry haze surrounds me as I dress and when I go join the others. Everyone is gathered together, chattering in various stages of awareness of our plight. My thoughts slide away from me, I’m unable to pin anything down, the pressure of what we must do suffocating me. An entire nation of innocent people could be thrown into war if we don’t perform well enough. My own fate is nothing compared to the destruction an uprising would bring. Think of the lives lost, the families destroyed.

Ironically, I think how much easier it would be if I didn’t know. I watch Effie bubble around, arranging us in formation for our entrance. Her greatest tragedy is that a Peacekeeper herded her out of some restricted area. She settles Katniss and me together at the rear of the procession and we automatically reach our hands to each other.

“Haymitch says I was wrong to yell at you,” I say, not ready to apologize, but needing to make peace. “You were only operating under his instructions. And it isn’t as if I haven’t kept things from you in the past,” I offer as an olive branch.

“I think I broke a few things after that interview,” she says, and I smile at the memory. The shock of her barreling into me, shoving me right off my feet. Not one for middle ground, my Katniss.

“Just an urn,” I say, feeling the angry knot begin to loosen in my chest.

“And your hands,” she reminds me. “There’s no point to it anymore, though, is there? Not being straight with each other?”

I begin counting Haymitch’s steps away from us, timing our own entrance. “No point,” I agree. We can be completely honest with each other about trying to subvert a civil war, but there are so many things we don’t talk about. Including one of the biggest reasons we’re so hesitant around each other.

“Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?” I ask her.

She blinks in surprise and her “Yes,” seems to escape without her meaning it to. Somehow, it makes it a little better.

“That’s fifteen,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”

I didn’t think the tour could be worse than it was, but I was wildly wrong. We move from district to district, in public deliriously happy, but back on the train miserably exhausted. Sticking exactly to the scripted comments from the Capitol we measure each glance, each word, for its effect. Are we convincing? Are we avoiding missteps? It’s impossible to tell. The stress of it is wearing on both of us. Katniss begins to look thin and pale, I begin to imitate Haymitch, unable to sleep in the darkness.

The dreams come for me then, hundreds of bodies, piles of victims, all my fault. Katniss must be having trouble sleeping as well, and when the prep team complains they can’t cover it up anymore, Effie gives Katniss pills to help her sleep. I prefer to prowl the train, spending most of my time in the end car, watching the glittering sky rocket past overhead.

One night, as I pace the corridor, I hear Katniss screaming in her room. Inside, I find her battling demons visible only to her as she struggles to fight her way out of the drugged pull of the pills. I wrap her in my arms, calling her name, holding her tightly, until her eyes fly open and, with a whimper, she flings her arms around my neck and clings to me, trembling, while I whisper whatever comforting nonsense I can think of. Eventually her breathing slows and her arms loosen their vise-like grip. I begin to stand to leave, but she grips my hand and looks at me pleadingly. For only a second, I hesitate, as my heart shatters all over again. But there’s no question really. She needs me. With a silent nod, I slip into the bed next to her.

That’s how we get through the nights from then on. In her room we huddle together, arms tight around each other. When she thrashes awake, screaming at the terrors that chase her, I’m there and she presses close to me, burying her face in my chest to ward off the images. Whispering reassurances, stroking her back, holding her safe, I help her slip back to sleep. My own dreams kick me awake, gasping in the dark and frantic to find her. And she’s there. Listening to her steady breathing, feeling her warm and soft, wrapped around me, I can let the darkness close back over me.

When we arrive in the Capitol we’re frantic. The audiences at the endless rounds of events are enthralled, they have no idea we are anything but madly in love. Our hope, though, is the televised appearances will finally convince anyone in the districts who were left unmoved when we visited. It’s a slim chance, but we grab desperately at anything we can reach. As we sit in the training center, our same quarters from the Games, we’re silent and exhausted, picking listlessly at a magnificent lunch. The anxiety of not knowing if we’re having any effect, positive or negative, is wearing us all thin. Katniss, Haymitch and I sit around the table, barely speaking.

“What if he proposed to me in front of everyone?” Katniss asks out of nowhere. I feel the world drop out from under my feet, and an icy emptiness rushes through my veins.

“That’s a good idea,” I agree, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Excuse me.” I rise quietly from the table and walk blindly down the hall to my room, locking the door behind me.

Alone in my room, I collapse into a chair and let the anguish wash over me. Head in my hands, I rock back and forth, teeth clenched against the searing pain in my chest. Lurching up, I pace the room frantically, as if I could get away from this, find some way out. I stop and stare into the mirror, but instead of my reflection, I see her, turning not to me, but to Haymitch, to make her emotionless suggestion. He was right. Snow’s punishment for me is to live a life married to Katniss, knowing she wants none of it. Grief twists sharply in my heart and I bow my head against the glass and beat my fist against the wall until the rage rips a scream from me.

Exhausted, I slide down the wall to sit, knees drawn up and my head in my hands. I don’t know how much time passes, but finally, I rise. I walk quickly from my room and head for the stairs leading to the roof. As I push through the door, the warm, scented air and soft tinkling of the wind chimes on the breeze welcomes me into a different world. I breathe deeply, trying to clear my head of the shrieking clatter of the frantic pace of the tour, the disaster that will be my future. Moving to the edge, I look down on the narrow, bustling streets. The citizens of the Capitol rush about so emptily, their minor cares and vicarious thrills clawing for something meaningful. I thought they’d taken everything from me that they could, but I was wrong.

I lift my eyes from the dark, crowded streets to the soft, ginger glow of the setting sun. The clouds are lit with shining, gilded edges and the sky is shot through with crimson streaks. I stare at the sky as the light fades and darkness creeps over me. And I make up my mind. They can’t have it, I decide. I refuse to let this be taken from me. I don’t know what it means yet, how we will make it work, but I will not become Haymitch. Not while I have Katniss to look out for. She needs me, and I have sworn I will not let her down again. Drawing a deep breath, I turn my back on the noisy and clutching Capitol and go downstairs to dress for my proposal.

The final ball is tonight, but first, an interview with Caesar Flickerman. He is delighted to see us, his powder blue lips drawing back to a wide grin and his powder blue lashes sparkling with tears of joy. We are the absolute best thing that could ever happen for a showman like him. He gushes over how well we look, how beautifully we’ve represented the victors on our tour, how the whole nation is on our side.

We respond dutifully, making jokes, adding little adoring stories about each other, answering questions with shy devotion. When Caesar asks what our future holds, I drop to one knee and tell the entire country of my love for Katniss. In front of all of Panem I swear my heart to her, promise my unending devotion and ask her for the honor of her hand in marriage. And she accepts. The audience goes wild, cheers thundering through the night sky. I stand and, turning carefully so the camera will have the best angle, I kiss my fiancée.


	6. Chapter Six

The raucous cheering settles to a more formal, but sustained, level as the anthem rises over the noise. President Snow arrives as a surprise guest to congratulate us on our tour, and the betrothal. My skin rises in goosebumps as he shakes my hand, smiling benevolently and wishing me happiness in my choice. The dripping irony is lost on the crowd who begin stomping and hooting. He moves to Katniss and when he reaches to embrace her, I have to work against my instinct to shove him off her. She takes his kiss on her cheek and Caesar grabs my shoulders in a joyful, one-armed hug. When I look back at Katniss, she is stepping back from Snow and her back straightens, her chin tipping up. Her face clears and I can’t read her expression. They spend the next few minutes joking about how Katniss’ mother will receive the news of our impending nuptials and the audience is eating it up. We leave the stage, waving to thunderous applause.

No expense has been spared for the celebration at the mansion. The towering ceiling twinkles with the light of innumerable stars and musicians hover on supported platforms decorated like clouds. Huge sofas and soft chairs are everywhere, and the dance floor is packed, either with dancers or a revolving roster of performers. But the food. Katniss is drawn like a moth to a flame. I can only be happy to see her appetite return, but her manic cheer has me worried. I don’t know the cause of it, and so I distrust it. She pulls me along to the tables and stands, taking it all in.

Turning to me, eyes bright, she declares, “I want to taste everything in the room.”

“Then you’d better pace yourself,” I advise, struggling to maintain my rapturous merriment in the face of her sudden change in demeanor. Now is not the time to let the mask slip, and I put the problem aside for later. For tonight, we are newly engaged and celebrating our victory and our love together with all the wealthiest and most favored in the Capitol.

Katniss is working her way around the tables on the perimeter of the room, her plan to try one bite of each dish. I follow in her wake, finishing decadent treats she can’t bear to waste, or taking tastes from her spoon when she is particularly impressed with something. All the while guests are coming up to us, introducing themselves, telling us their favorite part of the Games, showing off whatever version of Katniss’ mockingjay pin they have replicated as jewelry, or tattoos, or embroidery. We respond enthusiastically and gushingly each time, all while moving steadily along the tables. Katniss is just starting to slow down, looking slightly queasy, when her prep team flutters over, agog with the excitement of being honored guests at such an amazing assemblage.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Octavia giggles to Katniss, holding up a small pastry cradling tiny pearl onions and melty goat cheese.

Katniss shakes her head and groans, “I have been, but I can’t hold another bite,” sending the trio into trills of laughter.

“No one lets that stop them,” scoffs Flavius. They usher us to a table offering row upon row of delicate, stemmed wineglasses holding a viscous looking, clear liquid. “Drink this!”

I lift one to my lips and they burst into hysterics.

“Not here!” Octavia looks horrified.

“You have to do it in there,” Venia says, pointing urgently to the restrooms. “Or you’ll get it all over the floor!”

I stare at the tiny, innocuous glass and it clicks into focus. “You mean this will make me puke?”

The titter together, clinging to each other in their mirth. “Of course, so you can keep eating,” replies Octavia. “I’ve been in there twice already,” she smiles triumphantly. “Everyone does it, or else how would you have any fun at a feast?”

I replace the glass carefully, as though handling a viper that could curl back and sink its fangs into my hand. “Come on, Katniss, let’s dance,” I say woodenly, and I lead her out onto the floor in silence. Effie has run us through a few of the popular dances, but the floor is so packed we just move in a small circle, barely even able to hear the music. I concentrate on the feel of my arms around Katniss, try to focus on the shining curl that falls from behind her left ear to rest on her soft shoulder.

Try as I might, I can’t block out the images that crowd behind my eyes. Back home, I started sneaking baskets of baked goods together at the end of the day. I would bring them to the Hob and Rooba, the butcher, would sell me cuts of meat and Greasy Sae would prepare bowls of soup for me. Bundling these care packages together, I would visit children in the Seam. There was never enough food. The day I saw Katniss in the rain outside the bakery when we were kids was the first day I realized not everyone had as much as we did. And the first day I visited with the food baskets was the first time I realized the extent of the starvation in District 12. I knew it was a hard life in the Seam, but I had no idea how often the children were dying from lack of food. When we went through the districts on the tour, that same look of desperate need met us everywhere we went. They were on the outside, never in the front rows, never on camera, but always present. No wonder they are so ready to rise against a Capitol that promises them protection, but only gives them enough to keep them too weak to fight back.

And here, in the debauched, extravagant Capitol, this is where all their backbreaking effort ends up. The food they bend their backs tending, the resources they risk their lives to gather, the materials they spend countless, dreary hours producing, all of it is discarded so cavalierly as the effortless, bottom-less supply that it is.

“You go along thinking you can deal with it,” I choke out, “thinking maybe they’re not so bad, and then-” I clamp my teeth over my words. Kind Portia, devoted Junius, twittering Effie. They are all part of this. They all live off the sweat and labor of the districts, and they offer nothing in return.

“Peeta, they bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment,” Katniss says in a low voice. “Really, this is nothing by comparison.”

“I know,” I say, the vehemence rising against my throat, “I know that. It’s just sometimes I can’t stand it anymore. To the point where…” the sea of empty headed, tittering, decadent party guests feels like it’s pulling me under and I’ll drown. “I’m not sure what I’ll do,” I finish desperately. I look around at them all, so secure in their place in the world, and I want to tear down the walls, flood the mansion with the starving children from the districts. And here we are, playing right along with them. “Maybe we’re wrong, Katniss,” I hiss.

“About what?” she asks.

“About trying to subdue things in the districts,” I whisper. As soon as it leaves my mouth I wish I could pull it back. This is so far from the time and place for such a comment that I want to kick myself. “Sorry,” I mutter. Be careful, Mellark, I admonish myself.

“Save it for home,” she says, but before I can respond, Portia brings over a heavy-set man wearing the most uncomfortable looking collar I think I have ever seen.

I recognize him from the individual skills portion of the Games training. He was soppingly drunk and singing about the sister of a Peacekeeper last time I saw him. His name is Plutarch Heavensbee, apparently, and he is the new Head Gamemaker. My skin crawls when he asks to cut in with Katniss but I smilingly transfer her hand to his, warning with a sly wink that he not get too attached, and make my way off the dance floor. Portia smiles and asks for a dance, but I beg off, telling her my head is pounding from the stuffy room and I need to get some air. I can’t reconcile my liking for her and the fact that she’s a citizen of the Capitol, like all the rest of these greedy, selfish leeches.

I step outside onto the balcony, and while the air is cool and fresh, the company is just as crowded. People surge around me, trying to take photos and ask questions and touch my clothes. One young woman slithers up to my side, her emerald green dress cut so low it exposes a good three inches below her navel. She smiles seductively, her eyes of flame-like orange meeting mine steadily. She runs a hand down my sleeve and asks if she can see my artificial leg. Another girl joins on my other side, she wears only a thin strip of leather across her chest, and another around her hips, and she slides her hand across my shoulder while agreeing she’d like to see too. I tell them Portia would strangle me if I ruin the line of the outfit she so carefully prepared for me and they giggle as though I’ve made the first joke in creation. Two more girls and a pair of men, one young, one older, crowd in and they are all trying to touch me, making thinly veiled innuendos and batting their eyes at me. I extricate myself by saying I’m expected to meet Katniss, and leave behind their forlorn sighs of disappointment. Back in the ballroom, more hungry-eyed people begin to converge on me and I look desperately for somewhere to go. A door swings open and a white-jacketed baker emerges holding a tray laden with gorgeously decorated cakes. With a relieved grin, I disappear into the kitchen.

I feel the tension ease when I step into the familiar surroundings. The noise level is the same, but comforting rather than stressful. Wandering through the stations, I make my way to the pastry chef and stand quietly behind him until he’s free for a second.

“Excuse me,” I say softly, touching his elbow to get his attention. He turns, looking harried, and then his jaw drops and his face goes blank. “Sorry,” I say, with an apologetic smile. “My name’s Peeta Mellark, can I ask you some questions?”

We spend the next fifteen minutes discussing technique and he takes me back out to the banquet room, trailing his team, to look closely at examples and talk about different approaches. It’s getting late and I regretfully offer my thanks just as Katniss finds me. She looks tired, but not anxious and I watch her fondly as she peruses the cakes thoughtfully, deciding which to try first. It’s good to see her without the frantic edge to her eyes. “Effie said we have to be on the train at one,” I remind her. “I wonder what time it is?” I scan the room for a clock but can’t see one anywhere.

She lifts a delicate chocolate pansy from a cake and tastes it blissfully. “Almost midnight,” she answers absently.

Effie materializes behind her, bustling us toward the door at her most business like. “Time to say thank you and farewell,” she chirps, her disappointment at leaving tempered only by her delight at keeping to a schedule. We make our good-byes to a random seeming sampling of people before we’re on our way out the gigantic front doors. By the time Cinna, Portia and Haymitch are all accounted for we’re being picked up by the driver and fighting our way through the streets crowded with people celebrating our engagement, or our victory, or just the fact that they want to celebrate.

True to her word, we’re all on board and the train is pulling out at one o’clock sharp. Two silent avox servers haul a barely conscious Haymitch to his room and the rest of us settle around the table with tea for our final orders from Effie. After some small details she orders us all straight to bed, we still have the Harvest Festival at home tomorrow. Everyone heads for their rooms and I shower quickly and get ready for bed. I’m so tired my eyes are burning when I slide open the door to Katniss’ room. The lights are on but she’s sprawled on the bed, fast asleep.

I stand over her silently, watching her sleep. Her breathing is deep and even, her eyelids fluttering lightly to a dream only she can see. Switching off the lights, I ease myself onto the edge of the bed and unstrap the prosthetic. Scrubbing a hand through my hair roughly, I sit quietly in the dark, listening to her breathe. In her sleep, she reaches a hand for me and I take it in mine. After a few minutes, I lie down beside her, sliding my arm under her and gathering her close to me. She sighs gently and burrows her face into my neck, arms wrapping tightly around me. One leg tosses across mine, twining her closer until she relaxes into deeper sleep, no space between us at all. Holding her safe, I stare into the blackness as we rumble through the night toward home.

The night fades to morning and I sleep for a couple hours once the sun is up. When I wake, the windows are bright with afternoon light. Katniss lies with her back pressed to me, head pillowed on my arm and clutching my hand. I rub my free hand across my eyes and rest my wrist on my forehead. She jerks slightly and I feel her smile against my arm. Her breathing lightens and she stirs awake. Turning toward me, her eyes meet mine and I see her trying to sort reality from dream.

“No nightmares,” I murmur.

“What?” she asks blearily.

“You didn’t have any nightmares last night,” I tell her. I think it’s the first night we’ve spent together on the tour that she didn’t wake me at least twice with her screams. I don’t know what to make of this.

“I had a dream, though,” she says, her voice fuzzy and warm. “I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang it had her voice.” Her eyes grow distant and she looks relaxed.

“Where did she take you?” I ask softly, brushing her hair back off her forehead.

“I don’t know,” she says. “We never arrived. But I felt happy.”

 “Well, you slept like you were happy,” I say quietly.

“Peeta,” she asks, rolling back a little to look at me more clearly. “How come I never know when you’re having a nightmare?”

“I don’t know,” I say, considering it. “I don’t think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror.”

“You should wake me,” she chides gently.

“It’s not necessary,” I shrug. “My nightmares are usually about losing you,” I tell her. “I’m okay once I realize you’re here.” I think of the black nights stretching in front of me, the terrors I’ll have to go back to facing on my own. “Be worse when we’re home and I’m sleeping alone again.”

I slide my arm free and sit up on the edge of the bed, my back to her. Reaching for my prosthetic, I strap it tightly and stand up. She stretches a hand out and with gentle fingers traces where the plastic meets flesh. A shiver runs up my spine and I turn to look at her. She is beautiful, lying rumpled and flushed from her happy dream in the blankets.

“It’s almost over,” I tell her in a low voice. “We better get ready to be home.” And I walk down the hall to my own cold, empty room.


	7. Chapter Seven

My eyes fly open and I pull a ragged, panicked breath in the dark. Unable to orient myself, I tip between feeling the softness of my bed under my side, and the hardness of the ground my mind tells me I’m lying on. I stretch my hand out, feeling the soft mattress under me and the room around me begins to feel more real than the cave I was dreaming of. My pounding heartbeat drums in my ears and I shiver as the tendrils of the dream cling to me before slowly releasing me to waking. I roll onto my back, pressing my hands to my eyes, consciously slowing my breathing. This is what I get for falling asleep in the dark.

I draw a shuddering breath and sit up in bed, my head in my hands. My sketchbook is already full of multiple versions of this dream. Katniss in the cave, bleeding to death while I’m helpless to save her. Tonight’s had the added pleasure of Snow holding me captive as I writhe and scream to reach her. I won’t put Snow in my sketchbook or paintings. A superstitious fear of conjuring his attention. Instead of my book I reach for the silky hair ribbon that lies on my nightstand, the one she wore the night I proposed to her. I filched it from her room the last night on the train, and now I run it through my fingers, the repetitive motion calming my thoughts and reminding me that Katniss is home and safe. Safe is a relative term, actually.

We arrived home to a cavalcade of visitors and well-wishers while being hustled through Madge’s house to prepare for the victory dinner and the party afterward. We went home to snatch a few hours of sleep before presiding over the Harvest Festival yesterday, the celebration lasting until late into the night. Exhausted, I’d fallen asleep immediately, which is why I’d woken panting and frantic in the dark. I know better. I haven’t been able to have an actual conversation with Katniss and I don’t know what to make of her startling change from weighted down with dread to carefree party hopper. Even President Snow telling her we’d convinced the nation of our love wouldn’t account for it. After all, she would still have to marry me. I stare blankly out the window, just starting to lighten with the dawn. I don’t know how, but I will protect Katniss. Even from me.

I rub my hands roughly over my face and get ready to start my day. My father told me to take the Sunday off, but the truth is I’ve missed him while I’ve been away. Working calmly and steadily beside me in the warm kitchen surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds. It will be good to be back to normal life finally. For a few more months anyway. I shiver away from thinking about what comes next and focus on just today.

A quick shower and quicker breakfast later and I’m outside in the cold, walking briskly toward the square. Passing the fence, I pause and watch the silent forest on the other side of the wire. The dark, cold trees no longer seem menacing, instead they’re inviting now. Since we returned from the arena, I’ve spent some time on the other side of the fence. The wildlife is no longer terrifying and the quiet stillness and clean natural beauty appeal to me. I’ve found a small clearing where I like to sketch or paint, the light so much different out there. Most of all though, it’s where I can’t feel the foot of the Capitol pressing down on me, guiding and monitoring and controlling every thought or feeling or action. Now, with that pressure ever more ominous, I glance longingly at the small gap under the fence, but I’m not dressed for the cold right now.

The day passes quickly. I feel the calm steadiness of routine and the comforting closeness of my father working to ease my nerves and the focus I need for decorating keeps my mind busy. Today we’re making a series of lovely, intricate cakes to replace the supply swallowed up by the festival. Finishing a small, lacy dome I straighten and stretch my back. I smile at my father as he gives an approving nod, winking at me fondly.

“What’s next?” I ask, reaching for the yellow order slip. He gives it a quick glance as he passes it over, but his hand falters and he pulls it back.

“I’ll do this one,” he says, tucking it quickly on the bottom of the pile. “Why don’t you break for some lunch?”

“I can do it,” I say quietly, but my father shakes his head. I know what it is and I appreciate him looking out for me, but I don’t want to hide forever. When I’d only been home for a few weeks, I was working on cakes and rolling through orders when I grabbed the next yellow slip and suddenly the kitchen had closed in around me and I’d begun to shake as memories crashed over me, unfiltered. A customer had ordered their cake with a golden cornucopia and it had caught me so entirely off-guard it threw me completely. I’d backed against the wall to slide down to the floor, gripping my arms and clenching my teeth, trying to control the visions flooding my mind. My poor father was devastated and had become wildly overprotective for a while. He is clearly feeling the urge again after the tour, but I don’t want to give the Capitol that kind of power over me. I won’t cower from them anymore.

“Please, son,” he says in low voice. “Let me do it.”

I’m undone. How can I deny him this one chance to feel he can help me? I know the urge all too well, and so I nod my thanks. Washing my hands, I grab my coat from the hook and tell him I’ll be back for dinner.

Outside, I shiver and tuck my chin deep in my collar against the cold. Heading toward the path at the edge of the square, I pass the mayor’s house and am happily surprised to see Madge come out, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Hey, Madge,” I wave, waiting at the end of her walkway. She smiles to see me and we fall into step together. “Thanks again for the party the other night,” I tell her, even though it was required of her family. She smiles, recognizing this fact.

“It was nice to see everyone,” she replies. Her eyes don’t meet mine exactly and I wonder what she’s thinking.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Of course,” she answers, but her eyes still won’t meet mine and I think she’s flushed a little.

“It’s not my business,” I tell her, feeling a little hurt. She’s been different ever since I came back from the Games. We used to talk so openly. Not often, but honestly.

She stops walking and turns to me, flustered and apologizing. “Oh, Peeta, no,” she cries, distressed. “It’s not that, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…it’s just…I don’t think I can talk to you about it.”

When the people who knew me best are uncomfortable around me now it hurts the most. I manage to hide my flinch and I smile reassuringly. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I get it.”

Surprisingly, she gives a small laugh and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. “No, Peeta,” she says. “Never that. Fine, but don’t pity me, promise?” I raise my eyebrows questioningly and she looks away shyly. “I’m an idiot,” she says, and then the words begin to tumble out. “I thought, when you and Katniss got close in the Games, you were so, but then, when you got back home it was so….But on the tour you proposed and I thought maybe I was wrong, but either way, he wouldn’t stop caring. And now they’re in the woods together just like usual and I…I just…” she stops and looks up at me, the pain shining in her eyes. It all clicks together and my heart goes out to her.

“Oh, Madge,” I say softly, taking her other hand. “We’re a couple lost causes, aren’t we?”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I thought, for a while, you seemed so happy on the television. But you were so different when you came home.”

I shake my head, “Don’t worry about me,” I smile. “We both came home alive, I’ve got everything I need. What about you? How long have you been in love with him?”

She gives a watery smile. “You know when he took Prim away at the reaping?” I nod and she shrugs. “Him showing how much he loves her is what caught my heart for him. Like I said, I’m an idiot.”

I laugh and hug her, she clings to me for a second before stepping back and laughing unsteadily. “We should make a club,” she smiles.

“Worst club ever,” I wrinkle my nose and am rewarded by her laugh. “I wish I could say something encouraging, but I can’t imagine anyone not loving her,” I shrug. “On the other hand, I can’t imagine anyone not loving you either. Some lucky guy out there is just waiting his chance.” She rolls her eyes and we walk on together. We spend a pleasant afternoon together, it feels good to be out with someone else to talk to without having to worry she’s going to ask me about the Games or my engagement. When I walk her back to her house she hugs me good-bye.

“Thanks, Peeta,” she smiles. “That was just what I needed.”

I make my way home and feel a little lighter. I’m not alone, I think. I need to let my friends help me more. Maybe it’s time to talk to Carney and Eirik about what’s happening. Even if they can’t fix it, their support will make me feel better. Eirik will be endlessly optimistic and Carney will have some kind of plan, likely involving kidnapping Gale. I smile to myself as I fit the key into the lock and step into my warm foyer. The next few hours I spend in the studio, working on a portrait of Lila for Jasper. She radiates happiness and it’s been difficult for me to paint her lately. Today, I feel the weight rest lightly on me and I’m able to capture the brightness of her eyes, the way her lips curve upward, ever ready to tip over into a smile. By the time I’m ready to head back into town, I’m hurrying, happily looking forward to seeing everyone at dinner.

As I step out of the gates of the village onto the path toward town, I run into Katniss heading the other way. “Been hunting?” I ask, trying not to think of her out there with Gale.

“Not really,” she says dismissively. “Going to town?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to eat dinner with my family.”

“Well, I can at least walk you in,” she says, and turns back to head into town with me. She clearly has something on her mind, and I wait patiently for her to share it. We walk in silence, and I can see her trying to work up to saying something.

“Peeta,” she says abruptly. “If I asked you to run away from the district with me, would you?”

I pull her to a stop and wait for her to explain. “Depends on why you’re asking,” I prompt.

“President Snow wasn’t convinced by me. There’s an uprising in District 8. We have to get out,” she says in a rush. She watches me warily for my reaction as I try to piece together what she’s saying. If Snow wasn’t convinced, we’re all in danger. An uprising in 8 will be blamed on Katniss, she’s thinking to flee before he comes for us.

“By ‘we’ do you mean just you and I?” I ask, but the answer is clear before I’ve finished the question. She would never leave her family behind. “No. Who else would be going?”

“My family,” she says, of course. “Yours, if they want to come. Haymitch, maybe.” That surprises me. What could she think will happen, hauling small children, a drunk and my mother through the woods in the middle of winter? Her first reaction, of course, is to protect everyone she can without thinking through the consequences.

“What about Gale?” I ask. She’s been in the woods with him all day, she must have proposed this to him already. There’s no way Gale will run from this fight.

“I don’t know,” she says evasively. “He might have other plans.”

I watch her fondly, but with a fresh ache in my heart. She’ll see he’s right in time. She won’t leave him behind. “I bet he does,” I say. “Sure, Katniss, I’ll go,” I agree.

She brightens and looks at me hopefully. “You will?”

“Yeah,” I say with a twinge. “But I don’t think for a minute you will.”

She stiffens and jerks away from me. “Then you don’t know me,” she says defiantly. “Be ready. It could be any time,” and she stalks off down the path.

“Katniss,” I call, hurrying to catch her. “Katniss, hold up!” She pauses and stands, head down, while I come up with her. “I really will go, if you want me to,” I say earnestly. She hasn’t thought it through. I remember what happened in 11 because of us and I dread to think what Snow would do to retaliate if we take off. “I just think we better talk it through with Haymitch,” I say in my most reasonable voice. “Make sure we won’t be making things worse for everyone.” A sound behind us catches my attention. “What’s that?” I ask. But then I place it, and I growl, “Come on.”

I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything about it, but as a Victor I must have some pull. We wind our way to the square, but the crowd is crushing together and I can’t get through. Pulling myself up onto a crate, I stretch my hand back to boost Katniss while I try to see who is on the wrong side of the Peacekeeper justice. And then I see him.

“Get down!” I whisper fiercely, shoving over so she can’t see. “Get out of here!” Gale, hands tied over his head, slumps unconscious as the whip cracks down over his torn back. A wild turkey is staked to the post above him. I have no idea if they know she was hunting with him today.

“What?” she demands, struggling to see.

“Go home, Katniss!” I demand. “I’ll be there in a minute, I swear!”

Predictably, she pulls away and begins to force her way toward the center of the crowd. My heart leaps to my throat and I grab for her, but the mass of people close around her and I lose her in the mob. I scan the square frantically, not knowing what to do. I grab three little kids on the fringe of the mess and tell them, “Find Haymitch. You, his house. You, Greasy Sae’s. You, Ripper’s. Tell him it’s an emergency and to meet me at the square immediately!” I shove a coin into each fist and they fly away on their errand. The mob is swelling now that Katniss has arrived and I have trouble forcing my way through. I fight my way out just as Katniss leaps forward and the whip cracks down across her face.


	8. Chapter Eight

Katniss drops to her knees and a dozen hands grab me as I lunge toward her. Twisting and heaving, I fight the crowd that keeps me from the man who stands over her. I don’t recognize him, though he wears the uniform of Head Peacekeeper. Voices all around me beg for me to stay put, but all I see is Katniss, hand pressed to her cheek while the lash lifts for another strike.

“Hold it!” Haymitch’s voice rings through the square and I sag with relief to see him stride up to the officer. He stumbles a bit over the prone body of Darius, a Peacekeeper sweet on Katniss, who lies sprawled on the cold ground. Haymitch hauls Katniss to her feet and examines her face intently. “Oh, excellent!” he exclaims in disgust. “She’s got a photo shoot next week modeling wedding dresses. What am I supposed to tell her stylist?”

The officer looks wary, but is unwilling to give up his advantage. He looks back and forth between Katniss and Haymitch, clearly deciding how much of a threat he faces. “She interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal,” he grunts belligerently.

“I don’t care if she blew up the blasted Justice Building!” Haymitch spits with convincing ire. “Look at her cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?”

I pull free of the grasping hands and straighten my jacket, sliding what I hope is a tidying hand through my hair. I need to look as imposing as possible. I stride briskly and confidently to Katniss’ other side, protectively taking her arm and staring down the new officer. He’s still barking at Haymitch but is beginning to recognize the power arrayed against him.

“He was poaching,” he insists. “What business is it of hers, anyway?”

“He’s her cousin,” I say evenly. “And she’s my fiancée,” I add with quiet warning. “So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us.” I meet his cold brown eyes unwaveringly, until his gaze drops away. One of his squad steps forward and looks uncomfortably at Gale’s lacerated back.

“I believe, for a first offense, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad.”

She hits just the right balance of authority and deference as she offers him a way out and I breathe a sigh of relief when he takes it.

“Is that the standard protocol here?” he asks gruffly. She affirms it and his gaze sweeps disdainfully over the trembling crowd. “Very well. Get your cousin out of here, then, girl.” He slides his hand along the lash, the blood flying in a cold spray over us, before turning on his heel and leaving us alone. The rest of the squad follow after, but one surreptitiously passes me a knife. I cut through the ropes and Gale drops heavily onto the ground.

“Better get him to your mother,” Haymitch mutters. We roll him onto a board quickly sold to us from a stall and hoist him up, a few miners helping us out. The square is nearly deserted, the crowd having scattered like terrified sheep. We shuffle toward the Village, Katniss trailing behind. The two miners work with Gale and quickly relate the story of how he ran afoul of the new Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. They tell us he knocked on what had been Cray’s door, expecting to sell the turkey and had been arrested immediately. I clench my teeth, grateful Katniss had come to find me instead of going with him. By the time we got there he’d been whipped at least forty times.

“What about Darius?” I ask, worried about the cheerful favorite.

“After about twenty lashes, he stepped in,” they tell us. His tender heart must have got the better of him since he’d grabbed Thread’s arm, earning himself a crack to the head with the butt of the whip. “Nothing good waiting for him,” Gale’s friend mutters grimly.

“Doesn’t sound like much good for any of us,” Haymitch adds darkly.

We struggle up the steps to Katniss’ house and her mother pulls the door open. “New Head,” Haymitch grunts, and she nods her understanding, swinging into action. With quick efficiency she and Prim soon have Gale face down on a clean cloth on the kitchen table with hot water and medicines arrayed over the counter. She checks on Katniss’ eye quickly, but her attention is on the ruined flesh in front of her.

“Can you save him?” Katniss asks in a choked voice.

“Don’t worry,” Haymitch assures her, watching her mother with admiration. “Used to be a lot of whipping before Cray. She’s the one we took them to.”

Katniss stands numbly, watching with empty eyes. I pull her down gently into a chair and press a cloth filled with snow to her swollen cheek. Haymitch sends Gale’s friends home with some coins, a dire warning about their involvement making everyone frown somberly. Gale’s mother arrives and my heart goes out to her. She takes one look at her son, stretched unconscious on the table, his back a bloody patchwork, and sits tearfully next to him, pressing his large, strong hand to her lips. After what feels like an eternity, the wounds are cleaned and bandages are placed gently. But then, he stirs feebly and a low moan is torn from him. His mother strokes his hair and whispers gently, her grieving eyes fixed on Prim, sorting through the paltry stash of painkillers. Prim offers her mother a small, greenish tinted vial and Mrs. Everdeen nods.

“That won’t be enough,” Katniss croaks. They turn to look at her as though they’d forgotten she was here. “That won’t be enough,” she repeats, her voice rising. “I know how it feels. That will barely knock out a headache.” She is beginning to tremble and I rub a hand over her shoulders, trying to help her calm down.

“We’ll combine it with sleep syrup, Katniss, and he’ll manage it,” her mother replies with cool decisiveness. “The herbs are more for the inflammation-”

“Just give him the medicine!” Katniss shrieks, rising from the chair. “Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand?”

“Take her out,” her mother orders and I jerk my head at Haymitch who comes to help me lift her off her feet and we carry her out of the room, bucking and screeching horrible things at her mother. We drop her on an unused bed and Haymitch holds her legs down while I pin her arms, speaking in a clear, calm voice and trying to penetrate her hysteria.

“Katniss, he’s safe. Gale’s safe. You took care of him,” I murmur, dodging her attempt to slam her head against mine. “You kept him safe, Katniss. You saved Gale. Let your mother help him now,” I keep up a steady, low stream of assurances until her good eye begins to focus again and she stops straining against our hold. Haymitch and I release her and she shrinks away from us, sobbing heartbreakingly.

I pull him aside and tell him in a whisper about the threat of President Snow and the uprising in District 8. “She wants us all to run,” I finish, watching his face closely for a reaction but aside from a tightening around his eyes, he has nothing to share. We stay with Katniss while her sobs eventually subside and she lies curled on her side, cradling her face. Her mother comes in after a while and tends to her cut cheek, sharing a low voiced conversation with Haymitch about the new order. When the doorbell startles us all, Katniss leaps from the bed.

“They can’t have him,” she says, the frantic look beginning to creep back into her eyes.

“Might be you they’re after,” Haymitch points out drily and my chest tightens at the suggestion.

“Or you,” she replies peevishly.

“Not my house,” he counters reasonably. “But I’ll get the door,” and he starts for the stairs.

“No, I’ll get it,” Mrs. Everdeen says with quiet firmness. She leads us all down to the door and pulls it open to reveal Madge, huddled against the cold and covered with snow. My face must reflect my surprise because she meets my eyes with sad resolve and gives me a tiny shake of her head.

She thrusts a small box into Katniss’ hands and says, “Use these for your friend.” Katniss lifts the lid and stares at the half-dozen filled vials inside. “They’re my mother’s. She said I could take them,” she says softly, her red-rimmed eyes avoiding mine and I don’t call her out on the lie. “Use them, please,” she pleads, and turns to vanish into the swirling snow.

Katniss’ mother moves swiftly to inject one of the syringes into Gale’s arm and his clenched teeth and gripping hands instantly relax. I have an uneasy guess what was in the vial and begin to have a clear picture of why we hardly ever see Madge’s mother.

“What is that stuff?” I ask cautiously.

“It’s from the Capitol,” Mrs. Everdeen replies, confirming my fears. “It’s called morphling.” Uri dabbles with the drug, and I worry constantly he’ll be pulled under by its highly addictive effects. Katniss is looking at me and at the box suspiciously and I make a lame attempt to distract her from the truth.

“I didn’t even know Madge knew Gale,” I say unconvincingly.

“We used to sell her strawberries,” Katniss replies and I sting at the jealousy sharp in her voice.

“She must have quite a taste for them,” Haymitch leers and I want to thump the smirk from his smug face.

Katniss stiffens at the implication and spits, “She’s my friend.”

I turn to help Prim start clearing up the table, trying to hide the tremble in my hands. She moves swiftly and efficiently, but manages to give my hand a squeeze as she works and I’m grateful for the kindness. I try to swallow the ache and we serve up stew and bread, Prim insisting everyone have something to eat while Gale slumbers on the table, dead to the world. Haymitch and I offer to stay but Mrs. Everdeen insists we go home and get some sleep. We say our good-byes, Katniss barely acknowledging us as we leave, her full attention on Gale’s prone form.

Outside, Haymitch claps me on the shoulder. “Well, that was rough,” he says bluntly. He shakes his head and watches me from the corner of his eye. “You’re going to want to watch your backdoor once you’re married,” he says with exaggerated sympathy, pulling on his gloves.

“What are you doing, Haymitch?” I ask with weary resignation.

He shrugs and stares across the green at his own house, barely visible through the blowing snow. I wait and finally he turns to look at me squarely. “Are you sure of how things stand?” he asks frankly.

“I think her feelings were pretty obvious,” I say, struggling to keep the hurt from my voice. The wind is whipping at my coat and I pull it tighter around me, “But I don’t know what we’re going to do about it yet.”

Haymitch nods thoughtfully into the storm. “I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Or before it gets even worse.” He looks at me intently. “Are you ready for this?”

“Whatever she needs,” I say simply.

He shakes his head and looks disgusted. “You are a little gift to them, wrapped up in shiny paper and tied with a big old bow.”

“What are you talking about?” I demand. The pain and horror of the day are gnawing at me and I’m in no mood for his cryptic spite.

Unexpectedly, he puts his hands up in surrender.  “You don’t deserve any of this, boy” he says. “I’m sorry you got such a raw deal. But the truth is, she’s going to need you, and it’s going to hurt like hell. But you need her too, so there’s that.”

I shake my head in exasperation. “Go to bed, Haymitch,” I say with tired fondness. “You’re completely toasted. I’ll watch to make sure you get in alright.” I shove him gently in the direction of his front door and he waves sloppily before fighting his way across the green. The snow is so thick now I can barely make out the light of his opening door. Once I’m sure he’s inside, I turn to my own short walk. The driving flakes sting my eyes and cheeks and I push against the wind, finally letting myself into my dark, empty house. Feeling my way through the dark, I cross to the stairs and make my way to my room.

Here, I turn on every light before taking a hot shower, trying to work the cold out from the core of my bones. Finally warm, I settle into a deep chair under a bright lamp and stare out the window into the howling storm. I replay Haymitch’s words in my head, trying to guess at his meaning. Nothing comes to me, and I’m too distracted to puzzle at it for very long. All I can think about is Katniss throwing herself in front of that whip to keep it from landing on Gale. How she went into hysterics seeing him in pain. How tenderly she held his hand when I was leaving. I close my eyes against the memory of her burning, possessive jealousy at the thought that Madge would be interested in him. Tipping my head back against the chair, I prepare to wait out the night.


	9. Chapter Nine

Hands pull at me, clawing me back as I try to fight my way forward. I hear the whip crack through the air and Katniss screams when it lands. She hunches over Gale, unconscious and bloody, protecting him with her own body. I can’t get to her and the lash snaps down again, her screams echoing through the square.

I leap awake, heart racing, lungs pulling ragged breaths. I jump from the chair and pace the room, scrubbing my hands through my hair and trying to calm my frantic breathing. I shake my head, pacing, pacing, until my heart slows its panicked thrumming and I don’t feel like I’m about to shiver right out of my skin. I stand in the middle of the brightly lit room, chest heaving, gripping my hands in my hair. I swear long and mightily.

Unclenching my jaw and rolling my shoulders to ease the knots out, I breathe deeply and evenly. I scrub at my eyes, stinging from lack of sleep. This is exhausting. I can’t remember the last time I slept the night through. And then I do. Of course it was on the train, Katniss’ arms wrapped around me. The sharp ache races through my chest as I picture her when I left last night. Crouched over Gale, so lost in her distress for him she barely noticed anyone else. I doubt she’s slept much either. I better get over there and check in on her.

I dress quickly and head down to the kitchen. Wrapping a few loaves I brought home yesterday, I pull my coat on and open the door to the blast of the storm. The freezing air rushes into my lungs, stealing my breath and setting me instantly to shivering. Ducking against the biting cold, I stumble through the blizzard to Haymitch’s door. He doesn’t answer my pounding and I thrust the door open, shoving aside the empty bottles and filthy crockery strewn against it. Wrinkling my nose against the smell of rotten food, I walk through the mess, looking for Haymitch. I find him, curled on a sofa, cradling a bottle to his chest. His mouth gapes open and his deep, steady breaths rattle in his throat. The room is chilly and he’s huddled up, looking cold. A musty blanket is draped over a chair and when I shake it out a cloud of dust swirls into the air. I grimace and turn my head away, not wanting to breathe until the fug settles. I place it over him, tucking it in behind to keep it from coming loose when he kicks in his stupor. Turning to the fire, I add a few logs and stoke it up until a bright blaze crackles and the warmth spreads through the parlor. Making a quick check of the room to be sure windows are secure and nothing flammable is too close to anything on fire, I work my way to the kitchen. The bread goes on the counter, wrapped tightly to be sure it doesn’t actually touch the counter, and I clean a water bottle at the sink. Filling it, I head back to the parlor and pry the liquor bottle from his clutch, replacing it with the water when he snorts and grasps for it. I shake my head, watching him for a moment. He looks vulnerable, and for a minute I can almost see the man he might have been. Fair warning, I think to myself. Time to go.

The storm is picking up, wind howling into my face as I open the door. I huddle against the snow, it’s only three houses down but by the time I arrive at Katniss’ door my teeth are chattering and my fingers are numb. Katniss’ mother lets me in and smiles gently as she helps me out of my coat.

“It’s terrible out there!” she exclaims. I shiver my agreement and she puts a gentle hand on my cheek. “Did you sleep at all, dear?” she asks, scanning my face with concern.

“I’m okay,” I evade. “Thanks. How about you?” She looks tired as well, but the purpose burns brightly in her dark blue eyes. Like her daughter, she is at her best when meeting a challenge. She says she snatched a few hours rest and nods toward the table.

“She’s who I worry about,” she says softly. “Thank you for checking on her.” She pats my arm and turns to go upstairs.

I step quietly over to where Katniss sits next to Gale. He’s stretched on the table, relaxed in sleep and looking peaceful. Her cheek rests on the white cloth, her face inches from his. Their hands are gripped tightly together. I watch her fingers twined in his and remember when she bent so tenderly over me. Thinking back to how we kept each other protected, how we only felt safe when we were wrapped in each other’s arms, I swallow a knot in my throat and admit to myself that she feels that for him now.  Standing over them, a protectiveness for Gale surprises me with its intensity. She needs him, therefore I need to keep him safe and well.

Reaching out, I trace a soft finger over her cut cheek before gently shaking her shoulder. Her eyes open and the stiffness in her movements tell me she’s been lying like this for some time.

“Go on up to bed, Katniss,” I tell her in a low voice. “I’ll look after him now.”

“Peeta,” she says, her voice cracked and raspy. “What I said yesterday, about running-” I knew she’d never leave him.

“I know. There’s nothing to explain.” I see the sadness creep into her eyes and I cringe away from her pity.

“Peeta-”

But I cut in before she can try to tell me how sorry she is. I will do everything I can to make sure she’s happy, but I’m not sure I can listen to her tell me how much she loves him quite yet.

“Just go to bed, okay?” I say quietly. She nods, we understand each other. I watch her as she makes her way blearily to the stairs before I take her seat next to the table.

Gale stirs, his hand searching for hers. I rest my own lightly on his wrist and murmur, “It’s okay, she’s resting.” He stills and I settle in to keep watch over him.

By late morning Prim and her mother are downstairs. I move aside as they bustle around Gale, checking him for fever, looking worriedly at his back and trying to ease his position. Mrs. Everdeen asks Prim to gather a bewildering array of herbs to prepare a snow coat.

Gale gives a low moan and frowns fitfully. “Katniss,” his voice is a dry croak and Prim and Mrs. Everdeen both swivel their heads to look at me, the pity so plain upon their faces that I feel my cheeks warm.

“Shall I bring some snow?” I ask calmly. Prim silently hands me a large bowl and I escape outside to the howling blizzard. When I come back inside, I can hear the shower running upstairs and I know Katniss will be coming down soon. It’s time for me to go. I check first if I can do anything for them and they thank me graciously for my help. Telling them to be sure to call if they need anything, I bundle my coat tightly around me and step into the biting wind. By the time I’m in my own foyer, slamming the door against the swirling blizzard, I’m chattering and stamping to work the numbness from my toes.

Removing my coat and boots, I shiver my way to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Once my tea is warming my cupped hands, the steam rising to heat my freezing nose, I feel better. I pull on an extra sweater and thick socks before making some toast and grabbing an apple to round out my breakfast. I’ve just settled in a deep chair when the phone begins to ring. Hauling myself back up, I stretch and muffle a yawn as I answer, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Katniss replies. “I just wanted to make sure you got home.”

I snort a laugh. “Katniss, I live three houses away from you.”

“I know, but with the weather and all…” her voice trails off and I smile to myself.

“Well, I’m fine. Thank you for checking,” I tell her fondly. I wait, wondering if she had an actual reason for calling, but she doesn’t say anything. “How’s Gale?” I ask.

“All right,” she answers. “My mother and Prim are giving him snow coat now.”

I nod and check, “And your face?”

“I’ve got some too. Have you seen Haymitch today?” she tries. I smile again. She’s working up to something, but can’t get it out.

“I checked in on him. Dead drunk. But I built up his fire and left him some bread.”

“I wanted to talk to- to both of you,” she says, and I hear the hesitancy in her voice. She must be trying to avoid anything suspicious.

“Probably have to wait until after the weather calms down,” I say, matching her casual tone. “Nothing much will happen before that anyway,” I add as extra assurance.

“No, nothing much,” she agrees. We say good-bye and hang up, and I return to my chair. Thinking of my tapped phone, my house seems a little less cozy and I shiver as I watch the storm rage outside.

The blizzard lasts for two days, snow piling up past the windows. When it finally blows itself out, it’s another day before there’s any possibility of going anywhere, but as soon there’s a cleared path Katniss calls and asks me to go to town with her. We haul Haymitch along with us, squinting at the bright whiteness and befuddled by the huge banks of snow on either side.

About halfway between town and the village Haymitch prompts, “So we’re all heading off into the great unknown, are we?”

“No,” Katniss replies. “Not anymore.”

“Worked through the flaws in that plan, did you, sweetheart?” he sneers. “Any new ideas?”

“I want to start an uprising.”

A fist of ice closes over my heart, but Haymitch just chuckles, as though indulging a small child who just announced plans to become president. “Well, I want a drink,” he offers. “You let me know how that works out for you, though.”

“Then what’s your plan?” she snarls.

“My plan is to make sure everything is just perfect for your wedding,” he says grandly. “I called and rescheduled the photo shoot without giving too many details.” He winks conspiratorially and gestures to her blackened eye.

“You don’t even have a phone,” she retorts.

“Effie had that fixed,” he says, with a trace of bitterness. “Do you know she asked me if I’d like to give you away? I told her the sooner the better,” he leers.

I feel the frustration starting to bubble up inside my chest. They can’t stop sniping at each other even when facing something like this. What can she be thinking? There’s no way the people of 12 are going to rise up against the Capitol. Did she forget the whipping already? How they so meekly stood by and watched that happen to one of their own, and then scattered like frightened mice when Thread turned his gaze toward them?

“Haymitch,” her voice is desperate and wheedling.

“Katniss,” he sing-songs back in the same tone. “It won’t work,” he says flatly, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

We stop talking as a group with shovels squeeze past us going the other way. Walking on quietly I try not to picture Katniss, Gale by her side, whipping up a tiny crowd of zealots, so easily put down by the Peacekeepers. The sentence would be death, without question, and Snow would likely bring her on charges to the Capitol to televise the entire thing. I feel nauseous as I imagine his dripping disappointment in front of the cameras. How shocked he would pretend to be at her betrayal, all while broadcasting her undoubtedly torturous end to the entire nation. My hands are trembling and the towering walls of snow surrounding us begin to feel gaspingly close, squeezing in on us, tipping in to bury us, and I’m desperately glad to see the end of the path, opening onto the square beyond. But when we step out, we pull up short, mouths dropping open.

The square has become a replica of District 11. The banner of Panem is slung over the Justice Building and all around the roofs of the square are clusters of Peacekeepers armed with machine guns. More suited guards march around the clean swept ground, past an array of new additions. A whipping post, stocks, even a gallows rising starkly against the gray sky.

“Thread’s a quick worker,” mutters Haymitch darkly.

Our eyes are drawn to an oily column of black smoke snaking into the sky a few streets over. The Hob is burning.

“Haymitch, you don’t think everyone was still in-” her voice chokes off.

“Nah,” he shakes his head somberly. “They’re smarter than that. You’d be, too, if you’d been around longer.” He claps his hands together and puts on a brisk, business-like tone. “Well, I better go see how much rubbing alcohol the apothecary can spare.” He marches off across the square, leaving us gaping after him.

“What’s he want that for?” she ask me, but I see the answer occur to her halfway through the question. “We can’t let him drink it,” she says urgently. “He’ll kill himself, or at the very least go blind. I’ve got some white liquor put away at home.”

“Me too,” I assure her. “Maybe that will hold him until Ripper finds a way to be back in business.” I don’t tell her how unlikely I think this is. No sense in causing her more distress right now. Looking around uneasily at the transformed square I say, “I need to check on my family.”

“I have to go see Hazelle,” she tells me. I don’t like the idea of separating somehow, my instinct when unsure is always to keep her close.

“I’ll go, too,” I tell her. “Drop by the bakery on my way home.” I’m sure my family is fine, I just want to see them to make it solid and real.

“Thanks,” she says, looking relieved. We set off through the nearly deserted streets toward the Seam. Everywhere we go, the few people along our route switch direction quickly and even in the houses, children are drawn away from windows and no one will meet our eyes. Arriving at Gale’s house, we find his mother soothing his little sister, the angry rash of measles splotched over her pale skin. She apologizes for not coming out to see Gale, but Katniss puts her worries to rest and assures her he’s doing much better.

“My mother says he’ll be back in the mines in a couple of weeks,” she says bracingly.

Hazelle’s tired eyes are clouded with anxiety. “May not be open until then, anyway,” she says. “Word is they’ve closed until further notice.”

Katniss follows her gaze to an empty washtub and asks, “You closed down, too?”

“Not officially,” Hazelle shrugs. “But everyone’s afraid to use me now.” She looks so worried that I want to reach out and take her hand.

“Maybe it’s the snow,” I offer.

“No,” she shakes her head resignedly. “Rory made a quick round this morning. Nothing to wash apparently,” she shrugs.

Her younger son wraps her in a protective hug. “We’ll be all right,” he says defiantly.

Katniss empties a handful of coins onto the table and promises medicine for the little girl. Bidding the desperate family good-bye, we step outside into the cold. Katniss turns to me worriedly and says, “You go on back. I want to walk by the Hob.”

“I’ll go with you,” I say automatically.

“No,” she says, regret in her eyes. “I’ve dragged you into enough trouble.”

The absurdity of this comment makes me laugh. I shake my head and grin at her. “And avoiding a stroll by the Hob…that’s going to fix things for me?” I take her had firmly in mine and we head through the filthy streets for the market. The smoldering heap that was the building has melted the snow in a wide radius and the black rivulets creeping across the ground look oily and sinister.

“It’s all that coal dust, from the old days,” she says, almost nostalgically I think. “I want to check on Greasy Sae.” I can see it in her eyes. The protection instinct is overriding her common sense.

“Not today, Katniss,” I tell her gently. “I don’t think we’d be helping anyone by dropping in on them.” She nods her understanding, squeezing my hand gratefully. We head back to the bakery and inside my father is delighted to see Katniss. He tries to give her a box of prettily decorated cakes, but she insists on paying for them, further endearing herself to him. We make idle small talk and I pretend not to notice my mother hovering almost out of sight around the doorframe, face tight with fury that I’ve brought this shadow to her doorstep.

As it turns out, that was just the beginning. The district spirals into imploding depression. The mines are closed for two weeks and starvation runs rampant. Even people who can afford it aren’t able to find food in the empty stores. The eagerly awaited Parcel Day food arrives late and when it comes is rotten and riddled with filth. The workers in the mines are sent into increasingly dangerous areas and wages are reduced while hours are extended. In the square, there is a steady stream of punishments as people are rounded up for offenses so long accepted that everyone has forgotten they’re illegal. There is no question, the district is being punished for Katniss and my indiscretion.

My mother, not aware of the larger menace, has banned me from the bakery nonetheless. She doesn’t want the taint of my association on the business. My father tries to fight her on it, but I actually agree with her. Katniss and I are shunned on a sweeping scale. People are terrified to be seen in the same street we are, and businesses are mysteriously closed when we come around. I use my time helping out as much as I can at Katniss’ house. It seems to be the only place where business has actually increased. The sick and starving, ill and injured, flock to her mother, searching for relief.

I spend a good amount of time at Haymitch’s house as well. Ripper has been spending her time in the stocks and while Katniss and I tried to limit his access, ration his liquor, he’s almost at the end of it and the withdrawal is claiming him. Hazelle has been employed as his housekeeper and he screams and thrashes in fresh linens with hot broth served when he wakes.

She and I are in his kitchen tonight, she’s brewing a tea for Haymitch to try and ease his sweaty, clammy misery while we talk in low voices. We’re trying to decide what Snow has planned for the district. Is he just punishing us and it will let up soon? Is he trying to slowly starve us all to death? We are talking about what else he could possibly be planning to demonstrate his power over us yet again when a sharp knock sounds at the side door. I open it to find a smartly uniformed delivery man looking a little worried and a lot lost.

“Everdeen?” he asks hopefully. “I’ve got the wedding dresses President Snow has approved to choose from for the wedding.”


	10. Chapter Ten

I have a silly moment of trying to think of a way to send the delivery to the wrong house, trying to spare Katniss the nasty shock. Hazelle coolly redirects him though, and we spend a moment staring at each other questioningly. The hard times in the district have very obviously been a direct result of Snow’s anger with Katniss and me failing on the tour. He is punishing us, by punishing those we love. Even those who simply have the audacity to live in the same district we do. We spend the days wondering whether the widespread misery will be appeasement enough, or if he’s eventually coming for us more directly. So what then does a crateful of wedding gowns mean?

My heart lifts and I meet Hazelle’s steady gray eyes with hope. “Do you think this means-” I begin, but she cuts me off with a frowning shake of her head.

“No,” she answers darkly. “He’s not going to let her off with a miserable marriage anymore.” I try to keep my face impassive but she wrinkles her nose contritely. “Sorry. But you know I’m right.” She pats my hand on the table and rises. “I better get home and start dinner for my little ones. Will you make sure Haymitch drinks the tea? If you can get any of the soup down him, it will do him a world of good.”

I promise her I’ll do my best and stand in the doorway as she makes her way down the path, watching her for as long as I can see her. When I turn back to the warm, bright kitchen Haymitch is wavering at the counter. He looks awful, gray and drained, his lank, greasy hair hanging in his eyes and a visible tremor in his hands. On the upside, he isn’t ranting and threatening me with what I’m often certain are anatomically impossible consequences for not giving him more liquor.

“Hey, Haymitch,” I say in a low, calm voice, like I’m approaching a cornered beast. “How are you feeling? Can I get you some tea?”

He scowls at me with disgust and collapses into a chair at the table. He lifts his nose and sniffs toward the stove. “Is that potato soup?”

“Hazelle made it for you,” I tell him, trying to hide my relief that he’s showing any interest in food. It’s been a rough couple days. He grunts an expletive about the “woman who destroyed his house,” but dives eagerly enough into the bowl of hot soup I serve him. A little color is coming into his face and the tremor doesn’t leave his hands, but lessens. Once I’m satisfied he’s taken care of for the night, I bid him good-night and make my way to my own house, dark but snug.

In the kitchen, I dip fresh bread into my own bowl of Hazelle’s excellent soup and toy with the idea of calling Portia to get a feel for what the Capitol is being told. The bugged phone line puts a stop to that idea, though, and I finish my dinner in silence. Cleaning my dishes at the sink, I stare out the window into the darkness and wonder what’s coming next.

The next day I spend feeling anxious and on edge. I can’t stand to be inside, even my studio doesn’t hold my attention. Heading out, I wander aimlessly. I don’t want to get anyone I know in trouble by associating with me, it’s hard enough seeing strangers cross the street to avoid me. I watch the trees, quiet and inviting in the distance. Only an idiot would consider trying to duck under the fence these days, though. That doesn’t stop me from passing next to the meadow, and I’m surprised by the low, menacing hum that indicates the fence is live. Is this just another move by the Peacekeepers to exert control, or is something coming and flight is anticipated? Even more worried, I turn back and head for the village, I need to talk this through with someone. Katniss is out of the question, I don’t want to wind her up any more than necessary until I know for sure what I’m talking about. The phones are out as well, and that only leaves Haymitch. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

He answers my knock and I’m relieved to see him looking tired, but lucid. I follow him as he turns and disappears back into the house. It surprises me every time I come here and it’s clean and fresh smelling. We settle into chairs in the living room and he nurses a cup of tea. Ignoring his failure to offer me one, we sit in silence for a little while. I’m not sure how to bring up what I want to talk about. It feels like a bunch of minor, disconnected observations, rather than an overarching threat when I try to put it into words. Haymitch isn’t helping at all, grumpily waiting me out. Finally, I just dive in.

“The fence is back on,” I tell him. Gratifyingly, his eyebrows lower and he looks worried.

“Since when?” he asks.

“Today, I think,” I answer, pretty sure. “I was near it yesterday and didn’t notice anything, but I wasn’t looking for it either. Also,” I continue, “Snow sent a bunch of wedding gowns for Katniss to pick from last night. Is that as weird as I think?”

He watches me quietly for a few minutes before dropping his head and swearing under his breath. When he looks up, his gray eyes are strained. “Bagel boy,” he says heavily, “we may be at the beginning of a world of hurt.”

Icy fingers clutch my stomach and I grip my hands together. “I was afraid of that,” I mutter. “What is he aiming for, though?” I ask urgently. “Does he want us to get so desperate that there really is an uprising, and then he can smash the entire district under his boot?”

“Maybe,” Haymitch nods. “But maybe he doesn’t want to lose an entire district. There’s already trouble in 8, and if rumors are believed, other districts are getting rowdy as well.” He shakes his head, watching me carefully. “He tried to get you guys to calm them down, and it didn’t work. He has no use for Katniss anymore, she’s just a constant reminder. Now, he needs to get rid of her altogether.” I watch him with growing unease. He’s right, Snow can’t possibly keep her around. I’ve been fooling myself to think reason would win out in this.

“So he sends the district to the brink of starvation,” I say, talking it through, “then sets her up in an unreal gown with a lavish wedding that would have fed the entire district for a year.” I look up and see the confirmation on his face. “He’s going to televise the entire thing. Every little bit of how much she is part of the Capitol, happy and celebrating while the districts slowly starve to death. They’ll hate her.”

He shrugs. “If he outright killed her, she’d be a martyr. This way, he gets rid of her influence, then he does her in and everyone is happy she’s dead.”

I stare at him as he delivers this cold indictment with seemingly no emotion. As I struggle to come up with a way out of this, the silence in the room begins to feel thick, suffocating, and I leap with a yelp at the sudden banging on the front door. Haymitch smirks at me and heaves himself out of the chair. He goes to answer the knock and I hover in the hallway, within earshot but not clearly visible.

“Afternoon, sir,” comes a crisp, authoritative greeting.

“Is it?” he asks blearily, sounding more disoriented than he did a moment ago. “I just woke up,” he says apologetically. “How can I help, officers?”

“We’re looking for Katniss Everdeen, have you seen her, sir?” I don’t recognize the voice, but it carries all the smug arrogance of the new Peacekeepers, none of them have been here longer than a few weeks. All of our familiar officers have disappeared.

I step into the hallway and offer my most welcoming grin. “Afternoon, officers,” I greet them. The woman is smallish and looks eaten up with her own importance. A larger man stands behind her and returns my smile, but smothers it quickly as though reminding himself to be threatening. “I’m Peeta Mellark, I don’t think we’ve met.” I offer a hand to each of them while telling them cheerfully, “I live a couple doors down. Haymitch and I were just going over to Katniss’ place for dinner. If you didn’t see her there, I’m sure she’ll be back right away. She’s expecting us,” I lie smoothly. Where could she be? If they’re out looking for her, it doesn’t bode well. I have an image of the humming fence in my mind and I offer a silent plea that she couldn’t possibly be that reckless, could she?

The small woman tightens her eyes and tips her head a little to the side. “Is she. Well, we’re heading there now to deliver a message from Head Peacekeeper Thread.” She pauses for us to tremble in fear and looks slightly put out when Haymitch and I just nod encouragingly.

“Okay,” Haymitch claps his hands together. “Well, I’m going to get dressed and we’ll see you over there. Unless, do you know which one it is?” he asks kindly.

She reddens and her mouth squeezes into a bitter little line. Without a word she turns on her heel and marches out into the snowy grass, her companion following behind after smiling at us apologetically. Haymitch closes the door and leans against it, looking at me. He holds a finger to his lips, making a listening gesture and pointing to the room. I widen my eyes in surprise and he shrugs but nods.

We hurry to get Haymitch ready and cross the green as nonchalantly as we can. Prim answers our knock with a relieved smile, and both Peacekeepers right behind her shoulder. Letting us in, she accepts our apologies for running late and says Katniss is late as well, so not to worry.

“She knew I was going to help your mom with those butter rolls,” I offer. “Probably she’s counting on dinner being late.” Mrs. Everdeen nods just the slightest bit too eagerly, but it goes unnoticed. I join her in the kitchen and the uniformed man follows us, standing against the wall and very obviously keeping an eye on us. I show Mrs. Everdeen my father’s recipe for his delicious butter rolls and she works silently next to me, folding and thumping the silky dough. I can feel her uneasiness radiating off her and she keeps looking out the window anxiously. I try to distract her, making jokes and giving her pointers, and she eventually relaxes, enough that it isn’t suspicious anyway. Her nervousness is making me more and more sure that Katniss is on the other side of the fence. And the smug confidence the woman Peacekeeper is stalking around with is convincing me that she knows it too.

Once we have the rolls resting under a light towel to rise, we head back into the living room. Haymitch is telling Prim a lively and highly inappropriate story about a time he made a fool out of a Peacekeeper. He keeps adding little details about her, and they all match the officer standing smoldering in the corner glaring at him. His story finally ends with the Peacekeeper retiring from the job in disgrace and I shake my head at him, but I can’t quite keep the grin from spreading across my face.

“Haymitch,” I say pointedly, “I still owe you a rematch from the last time I annihilated you at chess. Feel up to it? Or are you too fuzzy?”

Predictably he can’t resist the taunting and we settle down at a small side table in the kitchen with the board between us. As the time passes, the woman begins to smile openly. She’s preening and obviously thinks she has Katniss dead to rights. I’m not sure what she’s waiting for, confirmation maybe? Surely Katniss wouldn’t actually touch the fence, would she? She’d notice the hum in time. I try to imagine what that would do, contact with that kind of charge. I grip a rook in my hand, the image of Katniss blasted backward by the jolt and lying in an unconscious heap lingering behind my eyes. I shake my head, trying to clear the terrifying picture. She would never get caught like that.  But maybe they have someone posted to catch her out on the other side. I firmly squash the flutter of despair in my stomach when I think about the third possibility that’s been nagging at the back of my mind. I’m almost ready to leap out of my skin when I hear the front door open. My hands begin to tremble from how relieved I am and I press them together in my lap to hide it.

The two officers step together into the doorway and I can see the man quickly cover his surprise.

“Hello,” she greets them impassively.

“Here she is!” Mrs. Everdeen trills, and I’m worried her breathy relief is too obvious. “Just in time for dinner!”

Katniss is casually shaking off the snow from outside, but her movements are stiff and oddly purposeful looking. “Can I help you with something?” she asks.

“Head Peacekeeper Thread sent us with a message for you,” the woman replies, though the grandeur of her delivery is considerably tarnished. She is clearly frustrated to have Katniss appear.

“They’ve been waiting for hours,” Mrs. Everdeen adds fretfully.

“Must be an important message,” Katniss says snidely.

“May we ask where you’ve been, Miss Everdeen?” the woman asks, trying to get control back.

“Easier to ask where I _haven’t_ been,” Katniss answers, crossing into the kitchen and thumping her bag down on the table. I eye it nervously, trying to make out what contraband might be inside.

“So where haven’t you been?” Haymitch drawls.

“Well, I haven’t been talking to the Goat Man about getting Prim’s goat pregnant, because someone gave me completely inaccurate information as to where he lives,” she says, irony dripping from her words, but her eyes trained on Prim.

“No, I didn’t,” Prim replies coolly. “I told you exactly.”

“You said he lives beside the west entrance to the mine,” Katniss exclaims in exasperation.

“The east entrance,” Prim corrects sweetly.

The two officers look on as the sisters banter back and forth, Haymitch and I joining in for good measure. The man is grinning but the woman is clearly growing more frustrated as each moment passes. She cuts in abruptly, “What’s in the bag?” and my heart leaps into my throat.

“See for yourself,” Katniss shrugs, dumping it out.

Mrs. Everdeen is pleased to find bandages and I peer into a small white bag. “Ooh, peppermints!” and I take one for myself. Katniss swipes for the bag but I toss it to Haymitch who gobbles a handful and chucks it to Prim.

“None of you deserves candy!” Katniss glares.

“What, because we’re right?” I tease, folding her close to me. She stiffens and turns a little yelp into an angry growl, but I search her eyes anxiously. She’s hurt.

“Okay, Prim said west,” I soothe. “I distinctly heard west. And we’re all idiots. How’s that?” I smile and kiss her lightly.

“Better,” she concedes. She glances at the Peacekeepers as though she’d forgotten them. “You have a message for me?”

“From Head Peacekeeper Thread,” says the woman brusquely. “He wanted you to know that the fence surrounding District 12 will now have electricity twenty-four hours a day.”

Katniss opens her eyes wide and asks, “Didn’t it already?”

“He thought you might be interested in passing this information on to your cousin,” the woman growls, her last threat sounding empty even to herself.

“Thank you. I’ll tell him,” Katniss says with syrupy sweetness. But then she has to push it just a little further, “I’m sure we’ll all sleep a little more soundly now that security has addressed that lapse.”

The woman glares impotently, but she knows she’s out of ammunition. She nods stiffly and leaves, the man bobbing along behind. Mrs. Everdeen bolts the lock behind them and Katniss sags weakly. I tighten my arms around her, careful not to squeeze anywhere. “What is it?” I ask her worriedly.

“Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone’s had a bad day, too,” she grimaces.

I guide her over to a softly padded chair and lower her down gently. I hold her hand while her mother slips off her boots, asking what happened.

“I slipped and fell,” she answers, and all four of us look to her quizzically. “On some ice,” she adds unconvincingly. We’ll talk about it later, no doubt eager ears are straining at Capitol speakers. Mrs. Everdeen makes a quick diagnosis and gets her bundled into pajamas, a snow pack for her sore foot. We eat a hearty stew with the fresh rolls and talk quietly about unimportant things. Prim moves to sit at Katniss’ side, leaning affectionately against her.

“Are you going to try on your wedding dresses?” she asks with innocent excitement.

“Not tonight,” Katniss answers tiredly, avoiding my eyes. “Tomorrow probably.”

Her mother hands her a cup of tea laced with sleep syrup and she sips it thankfully. As her foot gets wrapped, I watch her eyes begin to droop heavily. I offer to help her upstairs and she leans gratefully on my shoulder. Before we even make it to the stairs, she is groping and stumbling. I gather her into my arms and carry her up to her bed. Her head is bobbing as she fights to remain coherent and I tuck her blankets around her, smoothing her hair back and bidding her good-night. As I stand to go, she reaches out and grips my hand. Her eyes meet mine and her longing is clear. I think of Gale, and how he would feel if he knew I was here. I steel my heart and squeeze her hand, then tuck it under the blanket.

“Don’t go yet,” she pleads fuzzily. “Not until I fall asleep.” She looks so desperate that I relent and sit on the edge of bed, taking the hand she reaches back out to me.

“Almost thought you’d changed your mind today,” I murmur, finally giving voice to the fear and ache that has plagued me ever since I realized where she was. “When you were late for dinner,” I add, trying to keep my voice light.

“No,” she whispers, her eyes closing as she pulls my hand up to cradle against her cheek. “I’d have told you.” I watch her fighting to speak, trying to reassure me, and I close my eyes in the dark, a warm glow in my chest. As her grip on my hand relaxes and the sleep syrup pulls her under she mutters one quiet plea. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” I answer, the promise etching itself onto my heart in the silence.

Katniss is ordered to a week of bed rest, and she accepts it gratefully. I visit every day, chatting with her, bringing her news, keeping her company. She is happily willing to stay wrapped in her blankets and away from the worries pressing on us. One morning she asks me for my help on a project she is undertaking. Her mother has an old family book full of records about plants and their medical uses. Her father had continued adding to it with edible plants found nearby and Katniss wants to contribute what she’s learned to the pages.

The work is a joy for me. I love the precision and detail, the careful shading and coloring that has to be just right. Katniss and I spend the hours huddled together, one of us on either end of her bed while I sketch until the drawing is perfect and she carefully prints the information on the dry parchment. I sometimes watch her from under my lashes, her brow wrinkling with the intensity of concentration as she adds critical detail to the passages. She taps the pen against her temple when she’s thinking, as though trying to send a code to her brain to release the information she’s after. When she remembers something she makes a small, satisfied grunt and bends intently over the page.

One afternoon, as I struggle to capture a correct blush of pink, the quiet contentedness overwhelms me. We’ve never had this kind of time together, free from pressing danger, not having to act as anyone other than ourselves, just working and being happy next to each other.

“You know,” I look up, and I’m flustered to find her watching me absorbedly. “I think this is the first time we’ve ever done anything normal together,” I finish disjointedly.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and her gaze stays locked on mine. I can’t read her expression, but the depth of her gray eyes pulls me in, my pulse quickening and breath catching in my throat. “Nice for a change.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

Time passes in a soft, slow haze. Days are filled with visits to Katniss and Haymitch and trying not to think about the storm that must follow this calm. My mother still wants me nowhere near the bakery, so I’ve begun baking from the house. I bring cheese buns to Katniss, rye bread to Haymitch, rolls and pastries to Hazelle for the kids, and hearty loaves to families in the Seam. I paint and help Katniss with the record book, teach Prim to sketch and fill my own book with drawings of the increasingly horrifying dreams that visit me every time I sleep.

One sunny but cold afternoon in Haymitch’s kitchen Hazelle thanks me for the nutty, fruit-filled rolls and cinnamon loaf I bring for Rory, his special favorite.

“He’ll be so pleased,” she smiles, but her eyes are worried. “I hate to return a favor with ill news,” she says reluctantly.

My heart skips, but she doesn’t look panicked, just sad. “Don’t worry about me,” I smile. “Honestly, I think I’ve already had the worst news I’m ever going to get,” I wink at her.

She gives a small half-smile and squeezes my hand. “Fair point,” she says. “It’s just that there’s a required viewing tonight. The rumor is they’re going to show the wedding dress photos.”

I feel the familiar hollowness in my stomach, but I know she has more worries than me if that’s the case. “I’m really sorry,” I say softly. “He knows we’re going to find a way around it, right?” I ask.

She blushes fierily and shakes her head. “You shouldn’t be worrying about that,” she tells me sternly. “You have enough to keep you up at night without thinking about those kinds of things.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I grin. “It would be totally okay with me if he decided Shaya Flist is the way he wanted to go after all.”

Hazelle laughs and groans out loud. “What will it take for her leave him alone?” she exclaims. Shaya, the eldest daughter of a wealthy import merchant, has made it hilariously obvious to everyone in town how interested she is in Gale. Last week she met him after his shift with a flower covered wagon and full picnic dinner. Her father is still able to get many goods even the wealthiest citizens are unable to find and she seems to think she can buy Gale as well, if she can just find his price. His increasingly blatant excuses to get away from her are repeated and laughed about all through town. Smiling, Hazelle bundles up her belongings and heads for home, and since Haymitch isn’t around, I do the same.

After dinner I settle down in front of the television with a cup of tea. I considered going over to Haymitch’s to watch with him, but his house is dark and the drapes have been pulled all day. I wonder if he’s found a stash of liquor somewhere. As I’m trying to think back to the last time I saw Ripper in the stocks, the television buzzes to life and the seal fills the screen while the anthem swells through my living room. Caesar Flickerman, smiling like a madman, struts in front of a capacity crowd outside the Training Center. All these sensory memories make me grimace and I shudder uneasily. Caesar is discussing the upcoming wedding and the throng is frantic for it. They shriek and cheer and he plays them like a well-tuned fiddle. Cinna is introduced to near hysteria, he has become a star of epic proportion, and the two chat back and forth for a few minutes before the giant screen behind them comes to life.

Cinna has designed what must be two dozen gowns, they flit by behind him, and the citizens have voted down to the six that Katniss modeled at her photo shoot yesterday. The audience hollers, screams and boos as each picture looms on the screen. They have voted, and likely wagered, and are having a fantastic time feeling involved in what is being billed as the wedding of the century. For myself, I watch breathlessly. Silent and rapt, I stare as visions of Katniss fill the screen. She is stunning. Draped in laces, silks and satins, diamonds and pearls, silver and gold. Her dark, shining hair and storm gray eyes are set off by the glimmering white and she is the very vision of a beautiful bride. My throat tightens and I clench my teeth. A slow pain rises through my chest as I stare at the embodiment of everything I have ever wanted, and know I will never have.

“Let’s get Katniss Everdeen to her wedding in style!” Caesar shrieks to the bellowing crowd. The manic bliss on his face snaps me out of my reverie. It underscores the deception of the image of the bridal gowns. This is not a choice Katniss and I have made, it is a manipulation of the Capitol and neither of us want anything to do with it. I draw a deep, shaky breath and stand to switch off the television, but Caesar raises his hands to quiet the crowd. Apparently there’s more to come.

“That’s right,” he leers joyously. “This year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it’s time for our third Quarter Quell!”

Puzzled, I do a quick check in my head. The Games aren’t for months yet, what could they need to talk about this early? They must be trotting out some token that the Capitol is still in charge. Amidst the unrest in the districts, it wouldn’t hurt Snow to wave a reminder that your children are still at the mercy of the reaping. A little old fashioned fear to follow the spectacle of Katniss as a decadent member of the Capitol. Not a bad strategy, I think begrudgingly.

Snow, followed by small boy dressed in white, takes the stage as the anthem plays. As the music fades, he tells the story of how, following the Dark Days, the Games were born. He continues to relate how the laws of the Games included, every twenty-five years, a marking of the anniversary, the Quarter Quell. A time to stoke the memory of all those lives lost when the districts rebelled.

“On the twenty-fifth anniversary,” he intones, “as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.”

I feel sick. How would it be possible to select someone’s son or daughter to be sent to their likely death? I shake my head violently to clear it of the vision of some boy or girl finding out they’d been chosen by their own neighbors.

Snow continues sonorously, “On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.”

That was the year Haymitch was victor, I think with a queasy feeling. Forty-seven people out to kill you so they aren’t killed themselves. Forty-seven children died that year.

“And now we honor the third Quarter Quell,” the President’s voice echoes through the crowd’s hushed stillness. The little boy presents the plain, wooden box he’s been holding. Inside are rows and rows of small envelopes. Centuries of plans for Hunger Games. Snow carefully selects the envelope marked with a large 75 and eases his finger under the seal to open it. His voice is decorous, but I think to see a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he reads out the inscription on the card.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”

My mind reels as I struggle to grasp what he just said. The words slide around in my head, not connecting and making no sense. A tremor begins in my hands, jittering the cup I still hold, and spreads to my whole body until, shuddering violently, the cup drops with a smash and I collapse onto the couch. Gripping my arms, I stare blankly at the screen while my mind battles against the realization of what I’ve heard. A million reactions flit through my spinning brain, one after the other, none finding purchase. Fury, terror, flight, anguish, desperation, grief, rage. The room whirls around me until, with a jarring crash, everything shrieks into focus. Katniss.

I’m outside before I fully realize I’m going. Across the green and through his door without so much as a knock. Haymitch sits at the kitchen table, a bottle in front of him and the smashed television sputtering and sparking in the living room behind him. When he sees me, he barks a mirthless laugh and shakes his head dolefully. “I could have made so much money betting on you,” he says regretfully. “If only I’d known.”

“Haymitch,” I begin.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, cracking the seal on the bottle and tipping it back, taking a long swig. Thumping the bottle onto the table, he stares at me balefully. “How can I?” he demands angrily. I blink at him, confused, and he glares back. “How can I let you go back in there?” he growls. “The very fact that you’d throw yourself back in proves you’re the one who deserves not to go. Only one of us is going to be around after this,” his voice fades to a cracked whisper. “I don’t want it to be me. Not like this.” He presses his fingers against his eyes and grabs at the liquor again.

“Wrong,” I tell him firmly. “Two of us are going to be around.” I snatch the bottle from his hand and press my palm against his chest, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Last time you left me to die.” He winces and starts to respond but I cut him off ruthlessly. “No, Haymitch. You owe me. This is what I get to repay that debt. You give me the chance to go with her, and you do everything you can on this end to get her back out. That’s the price you owe.”

I release him and step back, but hold his gray eyes fast to mine. Finally, he drops his gaze and nods slowly. “All right,” he says despondently. “All right.”

The tension drains out of me and I feel my knees weaken. I nod shortly and spin on my heel, striding out before my legs betray me. Halfway across the green I slow, then pause and turn toward the forest, a distant silhouette against the dark night sky. The urge to run, to disappear into the quiet, welcoming trees is a buzzing itch in my stomach and legs. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts and I grip my hands together behind my neck. I tip my head back and stare up at the glitter of a thousand stars, cold and distant, uncaring as they shine down over the misery below them. My hands drop to my sides and I turn my head toward Katniss’ house. A sense of calm inevitability washes over me. I promised I would never let her down again, and I mean to keep that promise. I’m going back into the arena.


	12. Chapter Twelve

When I get home, my father is there with Jasper and Lila. Jasper is livid, his giant shoulders bunched tight and fists clenched. Lila and my father look like they’ve been crying, but have quickly put on brave faces for my sake. I walk straight into my father’s arms and bury my face in his shoulder. He pats my back and kisses my hair while I cry, shaking with the fury and despair bubbling up inside me. Jasper wraps his arms around both of us, pulling in Lila as well and we huddle together, sharing the misery. The thought of losing them, being torn from them, is devastating. I grip my father tighter and bunch my fists in his shirt while the sobs subside to shuddering, ragged gasps and exhaustion overcomes me.

Pulling my head back and wiping my sleeve across my face, I see the grief in my father’s face. He looks to have aged ten years and his skin is ashen. Jasper begins pacing the room like a caged animal and Lila grips my hand tightly, rubbing my arm and leaning against me.

“I’m so sorry, dad,” I say. I feel terrible that he has to go through this again. It will be even worse this time. He thought we were safe.

He shakes his head and grips the back of my neck. “Nonsense,” he says in his soft, gruff, whisper. His bright blue eyes, the original of my own, hold mine steadily and I ache with the sorrow I see there. “You’ll be wanting to get her home safe, will you?” he asks me.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell my family I have no intention of returning, that only one can come out of the arena and I mean to do everything in my power to see that it’s Katniss. I nod mutely. Behind me, Jasper makes a strangled sound and slams his fist against the wall. My father only nods in wretched resignation. “I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.

He smiles sadly and pats my arm. “You couldn’t do anything else, son. It’s who you are.” I choke on the lump that closes my throat and blink rapidly, my eyes stinging.

“Idiot,” Jasper growls, but he pulls Lila close and I know he understands. “They can’t do this,” he continues. “You won, you never have to go back. That’s the rule.” I smile a little at this. Jasper, my straight arrow brother, can’t come to terms with anyone who doesn’t hold to the same honesty that he does. He finds this incomprehensible.

“Come into the kitchen,” I tell them. “I need to talk to you guys.”

My family stays at my house that night and we talk late into the night. I tell them about the uprisings in the districts, that Snow blames us and targeted us along with our families long ago, and how the misery in the district was only the beginning of his revenge. They listen in growing fury and horror but I need them to be aware, to be ready. I’ve been operating on the assumption that the less they know, the safer they are, but things have changed. If this is the move and Snow thinks he’s taken care of Katniss and me, great. But if he has plans for the district still, I won’t be here to protect them and they need to have a plan in place. Jasper is incensed, furious at the thought of the corruption and abuse of power. My father on the other hand, isn’t as surprised as I thought he’d be. He asks pointed questions and makes insightful connections, nodding at most answers but contradicting me on some and adding new information. He has been angry at the way the Capitol treats its citizens for some time now. By the time they retire to the guest rooms, I’m convinced they’ll stand a chance if they get warning first. It’s the best I can do. Now, I have to concentrate on getting Katniss home safe.

In the morning, I put the first part of my plan into action. After a subdued breakfast, my family heads back to town to start work for the day. I follow shortly after and spend the next hour knocking on doors, handing off bribes and sweet-talking most of the Seam until I finally come up with Ripper. She’s huddled in a tiny shack, filthy and forlorn. The stocks have left scars upon her tough old skin and her eyes are wary. It’s the work of a moment to explain my problem to her. She grips my hand and smiles a sad, broken smile. She agrees, even before I press the bulging purse into her trembling hand, and wishes me well as I leave.

Ever since I left Haymitch last night, my every instinct is screaming for me to go to Katniss. I want to grab onto her, to hold her and know she understands everything I’m feeling and thinking. Together with her is how I’m strong. But now isn’t the time. Her family is going to want to be with her, and she with them. And I need to get ready.  I calm the itch by concentrating on my work, getting her home. The rest of the day is spent on preparations. I begin by readying my house. As soon as I’m dead, my belongings will be cleared from the village and I want my family to be provided for. I write notes to my father detailing where I will hide stashes of money for him to find later. I take stock of dry goods and provisions that may become hard to find soon, thinking about how to ration so there’s a good supply if they should need it. I make plans for packing up my studio and my few valuable belongings, thinking about who I would like to give things to before I go.

 I make a couple phone calls to get some things I’ll need from Effie and Portia. Both of these calls are difficult. Effie is effusive in her grief, Portia coldly furious in her sympathy. Promising to help in whatever way they can, talking to both of them breaks my heart a little bit more. Finally, in the late afternoon, I know I can’t put it off any longer and I head over to Haymitch’s house.

When there’s no answer to my knock, I let myself in and ease the door closed behind me. I find him snoring sloppily in the living room, half off the couch, two empty bottles on the floor next to him. I hope he enjoyed them. Thanks to some helpful tips from Hazelle, I’m able to find most of his hidden stash pretty easily. I move steadily through the house, searching carefully and gathering the liquor bottles I find in a large cardboard box. When I’m certain I have them all, I take them to the upstairs bathroom and empty them all down the drain. Bringing the box with me, I thump downstairs into the kitchen. I’m surprised to find Katniss has arrived, and even more surprised to see that both of them are drooping at the kitchen table, wallowing in hungover misery. Frowning, I scan the two of them. They look utterly defeated, sitting wretched and bleary.  I drop the box onto the table with a clattering bump.

“There, it’s done,” I announce.

Haymitch frowns blearily at the bottles, eyes unfocused. “What’s done?” Katniss asks.

“I’ve poured all the liquor down the drain,” I tell them. Haymitch snaps to at this.

“You what?” he slurs.

“I tossed the lot,” I repeat flatly. Both of them are red-eyed and fuzzy-headed. Katniss looks clammy and a little green and Haymitch is a train wreck. I eye them sternly, this can’t go on. We need to be ready.

“He’ll just buy more,” Katniss says dismissively.

“No, he won’t,” I counter. I don’t want him angry with Ripper so I fudge the truth a little bit. “I tracked down Ripper this morning and told her I’d turn her in the second she sold to either of you. I paid her off, too, just for good measure, but I don’t think she’s eager to be back in the Peacekeepers’ custody.”  Haymitch snarls and swings his knife at me in a wide arc but I bat it aside.

“What business is it of yours what he does?” Katniss demands sharply.

“It’s completely my business,” I reply with cold composure. “However it falls out, two of us are going to be in the arena again with the other as mentor. We can’t afford any drunkards on this team.” I narrow my eyes at her quavering nausea. “Especially you, Katniss,” I finish pointedly.

“What?” she fumes. “Last night’s the only time I’ve ever even been drunk.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “and look at the shape you’re in.”

“Don’t worry,” she says smarmily to Haymitch. “I’ll get you more liquor.”

“Then I’ll turn you both in,” I say ruthlessly. “Let you sober up in the stocks.” I can feel anger rising through my chest. They can’t possibly plan to sit still for this? To just pickle themselves until the arena and then give in without a fight?

While Katniss sputters and glowers, Haymitch fixes his eyes on me balefully. “What’s the point to this?” he asks. He looks like he’s been beaten already.

“The point,” I say, biting out my words, “is that two of us are coming home from the Capitol. One mentor and one victor.” I glare at both of them. “Effie’s sending me recordings of all the living victors. We’re going to watch their Games and learn everything we can about how they fight. We’re going to put on weight and get strong. We’re going to start acting like Careers. And one of us is going to be victor again whether you two like it or not!” Turning on my heel, I stalk out of house, slamming the door behind me and hoping it jars their headaches.

 Back home I close my own door more gently and lean against it, surveying the tidy, welcoming foyer sadly. I will miss my home, my studio. I make a simple dinner and eat alone at the table, busily making notes and double checking plans in my notebook. My father asked if I’d like him to stay with me until we leave, but I don’t want him to realize how bad the nights are for me, so I told him I was okay on my own. I’m rethinking that now, the despair is crushing. I shake my head briskly. I’m causing him enough pain as it is, I won’t add to it. After a long shower I settle into my favorite chair and prepare to wait out the darkness.

As the night creeps on, exhaustion overcomes me and I nod off. I dream of the woods, of our cave in the arena. In my dream Katniss and I are keeping each other safe, healing each other and protecting each other. When I wake, I feel a sense of overwhelming calm. As the silvery dawn lightens the windows, I realize I’m not afraid anymore. What else is there to fear now? I watch the sunrise with the hungry appreciation for each new day that I’ve had ever since the first Games. I feel myself accepting that the worst has happened, and now my only wish, once again, is to get Katniss home safe.

The next few weeks are full and exhausting. We spend every day training and studying. The mornings are for endurance and strength. We run, lift, jump and climb. Portia has sent training programs from Districts 1 and 2 and we build our bodies the same way the Careers do. Haymitch works with us, but after long years of abuse, his lungs and muscles struggle to keep up. It’s no matter, he’s not going to be in the arena. In the afternoons we work on skills. Just like in the training center, we practice camouflage, knife throwing, and hand to hand fighting. On Sundays, Gale’s one day off, he comes to help us work on hunting skills. His love for Katniss is evident in everything he does. How he looks at her, how he talks to her, staring at her when she isn’t looking. I watch him while we work, seeing how he deals with frustration or impatience. He’s kind and knowledgeable and even though he clearly has no love for Haymitch he is unfailingly patient and encouraging. I can feel a knot slowly loosening in my chest. He’s a good man. Katniss will be well looked after.

In the evenings, we study our opponents. Madge brings us news of the districts, sneaking the papers her father receives over to us.  Watching and rewatching the tapes Effie sent, I look for weakness, fighting tactics, any chance for advantage. These are not frightened children anymore, though. We’ll face them as adults, and angry adults at that. Like us, they were promised they were safe now. They will be furiously clawing their way back out, just like us. It’s daunting, to say the least, but I resolve to train harder, study harder, fight more furiously myself.

The day of the reaping finally arrives, joke that it is. The entire district stands silently in the glare of the hot sun in front of the Justice Building. This year, no one bets, no one speaks. I look around at these people I lived my entire life with. They have the same downtrodden aspect, but a sense of buzzing anger undercuts the fear and obedience. Closing my eyes briefly, I hope that this sacrifice Katniss and I are making is enough. Will this appease him? Will he leave these people in peace once we’re back in his arena? Katniss, alone on her side of the roped off area, watches with empty eyes. I fight the urge to cross over and fold her in my arms, shelter her from this terrible reality. Even Effie, a gilded wig reflecting the sunrays, has lost her ebullience. She reaches into the giant, almost empty ball where only one slip waits. Pulling it out, she raises her eyes tragically to meet Katniss’ as she calls her name. Katniss moves with stiff resignation to stand facing the noiseless crowd, her eyes, like last year, fixed unseeing on the horizon.

Effie moves to the other globe and her fingers fumble at the two slips, then close on one and draw it out. She lifts the slip, unfolding it to read. With a small sigh she announces, “Haymitch Abernathy.” Relief floods through me and I step forward.

“I volunteer as tribute.” It’s done. I see a flash of frustration cross Katniss’ face and my heart skips. Did she actually think I would stay here while she went back in? Was she hoping I would stay safe? The thought sustains me as I cross to stand next to her, facing the huddled mass of people watching us with empty eyes. My heart swells as I look out over them. My home, my friends and family, all these people living their lives and just trying to get by. Suddenly, I want nothing more than for them all to be safe. If taking my life will satisfy Snow, if he will leave them in peace, it will be worth it.

I’m jolted from my hazy thinking by a Peacekeeper grabbing my arm and pulling me backward inside. Thread is there, a leering grin on his face as he gestures with his gun toward the back door. Horror dawns on Katniss’ face as we are ushered, not to the alcoves to say good-bye to family, but outside to a waiting car. “New procedure,” Thread gloats. Before I know it, we’re in a car, the door slamming shut and Katniss presses her hand to the glass, watching the square disappear behind us. The grief in her eyes tears at my heart and I stare out the window as the district flashes past. It won’t matter, I swear to myself. She’ll be home soon.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The station is empty of cameras, lined only with Peacekeepers, and we’re hustled aboard the train with no fanfare at all. Haymitch and Effie appear under heavy guard and almost before the doors have closed we’re rocketing toward the Capitol. Katniss rushes to the end car and stands with her hands pressed to the glass as the district disappears behind us.

“We’ll write letters, Katniss,” I offer quietly. My own heartbreak over not being able to say good-bye is a piercing hurt in my chest. I want to hold her tight and share our pain, but I just watch our home fade into the distance. She stands rigidly, head bowed. “It will be better anyway. Give them a piece of us to hold on to. Haymitch will deliver them for us if…they need to be delivered,” I finish haltingly. She nods briefly then brushes past me, disappearing into her room.

Pressing the button to retract the giant windows, I sink onto a bench seat and tip my head back. The warm wind rushes past, whipping my hair and carrying all the aroma of the outdoors. The clean pine tree smell mingles with sweet grass and a dry, sharp scent I can’t place. I breathe deeply, the sun hot on my upturned face. The sky is a bright blue, a few streaky white clouds painted across it. This world is beautiful. I drink it in, mindful that every last second is precious and to be hoarded close to my heart.

I spend most of the afternoon in the open car, thinking of my family one by one and wishing them what I would have told them face to face. I will write my letters later, but I won’t be able to say the things that will only hurt them if they have them only as a memory. Like how I regret being unable to tell Uri how much I love him, how I understand and don’t hold it against him for even a moment. That I want my mother to be happy, to finally realize how much we love her and that she deserves that love. I will tell Jasper what an inspiration he’s always been to me, and how I’ve looked up to him my entire life, but how can I tell him how I’ve cried that I won’t see his wedding? That I’ll never meet his children? That I won’t be there for him anymore and I feel I’ve let him down. My father. There are no words to print that can tell him what he means to me, how much I rely on his steadfastness and how strong he makes me. Instead I release these thoughts into the sunlight and rely on the wind to whip them back to my loved ones, hope that somehow they know.  

When I finally close the windows and turn my back on the view, I feel like I’ve said my good-byes. My heart is heavy, but my mind is clear as I head in to the dining car for dinner. Haymitch is already there, peering disgustedly into a water glass, and Effie soon joins us, escorting Katniss. The meal is quiet. Everyone eats in near silence, the weight of it all pressing down on us. Effie is clearly struggling to find her footing, trying out spurts of conversation that fall flat on her sullen companions. Feeling sorry for her, I sit straighter and try to help her out.

“I love your new hair, Effie,” I smile.

“Thank you!” she gasps, clearly relieved to have another person talking. “I had it especially done to match Katniss’ pin.” My eyebrows raise, but I nod politely. If she only knew what she was aligning herself with. “I was thinking,” she goes on, “that we might get you a golden ankle band and maybe find Haymitch a gold bracelet or something so we could all look like a team.”

I’m touched. Effie has made it very clear she wants nothing more than to be promoted to a less dingy district and this show of solidarity means a lot. It also makes me wonder if her unshakeable faith in the Capitol may have taken a bit of a ding. What does that mean for other Capitol citizens, I wonder.

“I think that’s a great idea,” I answer with a grin. “How about it, Haymitch?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunts, clearly wishing he was at least half-way to oblivion right now.

“Maybe we could get you wig too,” Katniss offers him dryly, and I laugh out loud at the sour glare he shoots her way. Effie has run out of conversation topics and we finish the meal in silence.

“Shall we watch the recap of the reapings?” she asks when the dishes have been taken away.

I hurry to grab my notes and rejoin everyone else in the compartment in front of the large television screen. Effie and Haymitch are clearly anxious, wondering which of their friends and favorites are being sent back in to fight. Katniss and I are more numb than anything else as the anthem rings out and the seal glares from the screen. We all sit forward, watching the various districts offer up their previous victors.

Districts 1, 2 and 4 have many to choose from, of course. District 1 is first and I’m immediately suspicious of the legitimacy of the drawing. A brother and sister pair are drawn as the male and female tributes. They were improbably reaped back to back as children, and having them both going back in now makes me wonder what their family has done to incur Snow’s wrath. Also, it makes me worry since they both clearly have so far survived a deck so obviously stacked against them. They must be formidable indeed.

District 2 supplies two predictably vicious and eager looking tributes. Both are middle-aged but still in top shape, and aggressively zealous to be going back to the Games. District 4 is a different story, though. The girl is hysterical when her name is drawn and she is replaced almost immediately by a volunteer. The selfless woman has to be 80 years old, she can’t even walk by herself, using a cane to make her way to the stage. We all know the notorious man from 4, Finnick Odair is a legend of sorts. He was the Games’ youngest ever victor, winning with vicious skill at the age of 14. Since his win he’s been a darling of the Capitol, handsome and wildly flirtatious. I can’t help wondering how much of his devil-may-care attitude is a cover, though. Like Haymitch, I doubt he emerged unscathed.

There are a few more that stand out, either because I remember their stories or they seem particularly damaged. I clench my fists as a tall, older woman from 8 has to struggle free of the three children who clutch at her when her name is read. Haymitch swears and hangs his head to see his friend from 11 called. When Katniss takes her place, steely eyed at Effie’s side, the announcer is choked up. Haymitch is called and I volunteer, almost doing in the announcer. She wipes furiously at her eyes, heartbroken that we never seem to be able to shake our misfortune. I have a little trouble mustering sympathy for her avaricious grief.

I’m haunted by Cecelia, the woman from 8 with the children. How she must have been panicked that her children would go into the reaping ball, only to be returned to it herself. Fury is bitter in my throat as I try to shove away the thought of her children at home without her tonight. Haymitch lurches from his chair and stalks from the room in silence. After a few moments of twittering about, Effie follows. She is clearly distressed, but I can’t find any compassion for any Capitol citizens right now. I concentrate on methodically ripping the pages from my book with the notes on the victors who have been spared. Katniss watches me mutely and I worry my rage will translate to her awareness.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” I suggest, keeping my voice steady.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“Just review my notes a while,” I tell her. “Get a clear picture of what we’re up against. But I’ll go over it with you in the morning,” I assure her. “Go to bed, Katniss.”

She turns reluctantly and heads down the corridor to her room. I sigh with relief, I was worried she would fight me on this. I need to watch the tapes, to study the tributes we’ll be in the arena with, but I don’t want Katniss to see it. Not now that they are actual people in her eyes. She saw Cecelia with her kids as well, she knows as well as I do that when Haymitch’s friend Chaff was called Haymitch’s immediate thought was that one of the three of us could only live at the expense of the deaths of the other two. I don’t want her to have to think of them as people any more than she has too. I’ll take that burden myself, I’ll get to know them so we can defeat them. Unlike her, I won’t have to live with the stain on my conscience.

I spend the next few hours watching children murder each other. Each tape holds fear and desperation, starvation, thirst and injuries. And death. So much death. After the first two tapes, I have to take a break and walk to the end car, opening the windows and breathing in the clean night air. The flashbacks are vivid and powerful, I find I’m placing myself in the minds of the tributes as I watch them struggle and it feels like I’m being buried alive. I stand in the cool darkness and shake my head. I need to get this done, and before Katniss wants to watch them with me. I don’t want her to feel like this. The thought gives me the resolve I need to go back to the television room and I slide another tape in, sitting down with my notes to watch how the victor fights.

After a while I hear footsteps behind me. Rising smoothly to block the view of the television, I flick it off and meet Katniss’ eyes. She looks haunted, she must have had another nightmare. “Couldn’t sleep?” I ask her gently.

“Not for long,” she shivers, wrapping her robe tightly around herself, hugging her arms to her chest.

“Want to talk about it?” I try. She’s skittish, her gaze darting around the room and her hands rubbing up and down her arms. Sometimes she could talk out her night terrors and lessen their grip on her subconscious, but she just shakes her head no. The hell with it, I think, and I open my arms. With a sigh of relief, she darts forward and wraps her arms tightly around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. It’s the first time I’ve held her in months, my arms hunger for her and I pull her closer even as she tightens her own grip. My lips brush her neck and the heat from her skin rushes over mine, warming me to the tips of my toes. Closing my eyes, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let her go.

Unfortunately, I have to. A waiter appears, carrying a tray and coughing discretely. We step apart as he sets the tray on a table and looks at us from under his lashes. “I brought an extra cup,” he offers solicitously as he arranges two mugs and a small pitcher. “And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness,” he continues. His eyes are tragic, fixed on the two of us despairingly. “And just a pinch of spice,” he finishes wretchedly. He pauses, but then hurries from the room, leaving us alone.

“What’s with him?” Katniss asks wonderingly.

“I think he feels bad for us,” I say slowly. A tiny seed of an idea is beginning to take root in my mind.

“Right,” Katniss snorts dismissively, pouring steaming milk into the two mugs.

“I mean it,” I insist. “I don’t think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in.” I try to think it through, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. “Or the other victors,” I continue. “They get attached to their champions.”

“I’m guessing they’ll get over it once the blood starts flowing,” she replies cynically. Though she’s probably correct on this. They’ll scream and sob when the battle begins, but revel in the tragedy of losing favorites they’ve adored for years. My lip curls and I’m glad when Katniss cuts into my dark thoughts. “So, you’re watching all the tapes again?”

“Not really,” I hedge. “Just sort of skipping around to see people’s different fighting techniques.”

“Who’s next?” she asks, and I sigh resignedly.

“You pick,” I say, holding out the box and hoping she’ll be discouraged by the unorganized jumble of tapes inside. She reaches in and shuffles around, then draws one out and holds it up for me to see.

“We never watched this one,” she says. She’s holding the tape of Haymitch’s Games.

“No,” I agree. “I knew Haymitch didn’t want to. The same way we didn’t want to relive our own Games. And since we’re all on the same team, I didn’t think it mattered much.”

She peers into the box. “Is the person who won in twenty-five in here?”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, rustling through the stacks. “Whoever it was must be dead by now, and Effie only sent me victors we might have to face.” I balance the tape on my hand, feeling the weight of what it contains. “Why? You think we ought to watch it?” I ask her.

“It’s the only Quell we have,” she says. “We might pick up something valuable about how they work.” We both know we’re trying to justify it. I can tell she feels as sketchy about it as I do, like we’re prying into something deeply personal and private. “We don’t have to tell Haymitch we saw it,” she says in a low voice.

“Okay,” I agree, my mind made up. After all, this is far from the worst thing I’m going to do in the next few weeks.

 I slide the tape in and we settle onto the couch with our mugs, comfortably close together. The tape has a glitzy, celebratory feel and the anthem precedes a considerably younger, but equally vile Snow reading the card that dooms twice as many children to death that year. The reapings seem to go on forever, so many names. By the time they reach District 12 I can feel my mouth is dropped open. The staggering number of young, scared faces is astonishing. The chaperone stands in front of our familiar Justice Building, dipping into the reaping ball and chirping out the name of a small, dark haired girl whose knees buckle when her name is called. The next girl’s name makes Katniss sit up straighter.

“Oh,” she exclaims. “She was my mother’s friend.” Sure enough, in the crowd she’s being surrounded by tearful, blonde haired girls, one of whom is clearly recognizable.

“I think that’s your mother hugging her,” I point out. Katniss stares at the screen as she takes in the image of her beautiful, young mother, unbroken by grief as yet. Her gaze sharpens as she shifts her attention to the other girl clutching her mother’s hand.

“Madge,” she murmurs.

“That’s her mother,” I nod. “She and Maysilee were twins or something.” I’m trying to remember if they were identical or not, it’s hard to tell from the old tape. Katniss is looking at me curiously. “My dad mentioned it once,” I explain.

A boy is called we aren’t able to place, and lastly, Haymitch. He strides to the stage, leaping lightly up the steps and turning to face the crowd with defiant arrogance. Only because of how well I know him now am I able to see the fear he is covering up.

Katniss grabs my arm, “Oh, Peeta, you don’t think he killed Maysilee, do you?” she asks anxiously.

“With forty-eight players? I’d say the odds are against it,” I tell her soothingly.

Haymitch is featured prominently in the edit, since he won, but there are so many chariots and interviews it’s dizzying. We get to see a longer conversation with him and Caesar, who looks eerily the same except for emerald green hair and lips.

“So, Haymitch,” he begins, jovially hiding his weariness at the enormous number of tributes he’s had to coax answers from this night. “What do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?”

Haymitch dismisses the question with a shrug. “I don’t see that it makes much difference. They’ll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same.”

I shake my head as he works the angle he’s decided on. Arrogant confidence seems to be where’s he’s landed. He can pull it off, too.

The arena the masses of tributes rise into is like a child’s fantasy painting. Bright colors, soft grass and dipping, singing birds. On one side stretches a fairy-tale forest, a huge shouldered mountain rises in the distance on the other. Haymitch, unlike many of tributes, isn’t fazed by the surroundings and at the gong he races forward, snatching up a well-supplied backpack and arming himself heavily. By the time the mayhem around the Cornucopia breaks out, he’s off into the woods.

The sweet-seeming, picturesque landscape soon proves deadly and the number of tributes dwindles quickly. Haymitch and Maysilee appear well-suited for each other and soon team up to fight together. Haymitch convinces her to accompany him on the mission he looks to have undertaken, to fight his way ever deeper into the woods. When she finally presses him for a reason, he turns to her with a determined glint in his eye.

“Because it has to end somewhere, right?” he reasons.

They eventually do find the end on a cliff overlooking a monstrous drop-off and jagged rocks below. Maysilee is ready to go back, but Haymitch resolves to stay and this is where they part ways, two of only five survivors. I watch intently as he skirts along the edge of the cliff until he discovers that the bottom hides a force field like the one at the bottom of the training center in the Capitol. A rock hurled over the edge comes flying back up to him and he laughs delightedly.

The Games are almost over. Katniss and I stare in fascinated horror as Haymitch arrives too late to save Maysilee from a deadly flock of birds and later the same day battles ferociously with the only girl left between him and victory. The fight is shocking in its violence and gore, ending with Haymitch staggering through the woods clutching a wound where his intestines are spilling out and a girl from District 1 follows him with determined fierceness, one hand gripping an ax and the other covering her empty eye socket. Haymitch reaches the cliff edge and collapses, causing the ax she hurtles after him to shriek past him and over the brink. She stands where she is, watching him begin to convulse and clearly bracing herself to simply outlast him. And then the ax returns, whistling back over the edge and burying itself in her head. The trumpets blast Haymitch’s victory through the beautiful, terrifying arena.

I turn off the tape and we sit silently for a minute, staring empty-eyed at the blank screen.

“The force field at the bottom of the cliff,” I say wonderingly. “It was like the one on the roof of the Training Center. The one that throws you back if you try to jump off and commit suicide. Haymitch found a way to turn it into a weapon.” I am horrified and astounded in equal measure.

“Not just against the other tributes, but the Capitol, too,” Katniss points out. “You know they didn’t expect that to happen. It wasn’t meant to be part of the arena. They never planned on anyone using it as a weapon. It made them look stupid that he figured it out.” I’m nodding my agreement, thinking about his warning to me in District 11. You can’t even look like you might consider becoming a threat. “I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one,” Katniss continues. “Bet that’s why I don’t remember seeing it on television. It’s almost as bad as us and the berries!” She starts laughing uncontrollably and I shake my head, watching her transform to a different person.

“Almost, but not quite,” Haymitch’s voice comes from behind us. We swing around guiltily but he leans smugly in the doorframe, drinking deeply from the wine bottle in his hand. I watch him with careful consideration. He looks delighted to relive his moment of making the Capitol look stupid. I smile quietly to myself. Surely two people with such a flair for causing the Capitol grief can think of a way to get Katniss home alive.


	14. Chapter Fourtenn

Being back in our quarters in the Training Center is making me claustrophobic. When we were here for the tour it was bad enough, I never imagined I’d be here as a tribute again. I look around at the familiar rooms, the same walls and unchanged décor. Suddenly it’s too much for me, I need to get out. First I try the roof, but it’s too confined and the openness isn’t enough. Back home when I was restless I would walk, the clean air clearing my head and the exercise swinging my mood back. My skin itches with my need to be away from here. I head back downstairs to find Portia.

I skirt around my room quickly, not wanting to get caught by my prep team. I can hear them chattering and setting up inside. Portia is in the sitting room, going over sketches spread out in front of her. She looks up with a questioning smile.

“I need a favor,” I tell her bluntly.

“Of course,” she replies. She’s so willing to help, her response was so immediate, that it gives me pause. I don’t want to get her in trouble and I’m not sure if what I want is forbidden or not. Well, I’m sure it is, I just don’t know to what degree we’d be punished if I got caught.

“I want to go out,” I tell her. “I want to go see the city a bit.” Her eyes grow round in surprise and I see her register what a big thing that is to ask of her. “I don’t know what the future holds for me,” I lie. “I just want to go see it.”

Portia watches me steadily for a long minute, her head cocked to the side. “You’re going to try and get her out,” she says accusingly. Again, I have no way to answer this, I just shrug and nod. A cloud of grief passes over her face, but I can see her accept it just like my father did. Fondness for her surges up in me, that she understands so readily. I reach out and take her hand, giving it a squeeze and she smiles back sadly. “Come with me,” she says.

We go through the hallway and into a back alcove room. She begins rummaging through trunks and cases, pulling out clothes and accessories. She sets to work and in a short while steps back and eyes me critically. “What do you think?” she asks, turning me toward the full length mirror.

A hat covers my familiar blond curls and golden contacts hide my tell-tale blue eyes. The clothing is so out of character that it doesn’t even look like me staring back from the reflection. A bright, spring green jacket over a silky yellow shirt and green and yellow striped trousers, the flared leg disguising my prosthetic leg nicely, transform me into a run-of-the-mill Capitol citizen. Not too well-off, but enough not to draw attention. It’s perfect.

I laugh out loud and tug at a leg. “Why do you even have these pants?” I exclaim reproachfully.

She grins back at me and tells me of a bet she has with Cinna. “If I can just get Haymitch drunk enough, I’m going to win a pretty good stack of cash,” she says mischievously. The very idea sets me off and we cover our mouths with our hands, trying to stifle our guffaws. Still chortling softly, we sneak guiltily out into the hallway, watching nervously down each corridor. Everyone is busy getting ready for the chariot parade tonight though, and I make it to the elevator unnoticed. On the way down, Portia reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. Silently returning the pressure, I hold her hand in mine all the way down.

Once we’re at the lobby, she winks at me as the doors slide apart and we stride confidently toward the main door. My heart pounds nervously but people bustle and flow around us, no one taking notice of the well-turned out pair making for the street. As the large glass doors swish closed behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m out! Portia gives me a vague air kiss on either side of my face but stares intently into my eyes. “Careful,” she whispers, and then she disappears back inside.

Not wanting to look lost right outside the Training Center, I scan the street quickly. The track for the chariot parade flows down toward the grounds of the President’s mansion and I quickly turn and head in the opposite direction. Shops line the street, eateries and boutiques, some looking expensive but some seeming quite run-down. I walk with what I hope is a confident yet unassuming swagger to nowhere in particular. The people engulf me, taking no notice of another stranger in their midst. The buzzing screech inside me begins to quiet as I walk in the open air, the motion and freedom soothing my jangling nerves. I stop quickly in a tiny but welcoming café and reemerge cradling a cup of thick, dark chocolate infused with coffee and topped with sweet, frothy cream. The warm, sharp sweetness is glorious and a little moan escapes when I sip it. As I get further from the Training Center I become less nervous about being recognized and begin to notice my surroundings more as I relax. The anonymous freedom loosens my shoulders and I smile at a tiny girl with curls cascading over her back in long, purple ringlets. She grins back and waves merrily, lightening my heart. As I pass a window, my eye is caught by a delicate, filigreed lipstick case in the display and instantly I know I need to get it for Portia.

The bell on the door chimes my entrance and a simpering clerk with gold swirls tattooed over his fingers and gilded lips smiles greasily at me. While he’s wrapping my purchase, my eyes drift over the cases of beautiful jewelry and accessories. One velvet display catches my attention. It cradles a glinting golden locket, open on subtle hinges to showcase three photographs. I stare at it for a long moment, the hint of an idea beginning to form in my mind.

Back on the street I wander happily and aimlessly, watching the bizarrely dressed people as they go about their days. Going to work, shopping, meeting for coffee, their bright, empty chatter is uniformly meaningless. Displays for the chariot parade tonight are everywhere, with the subtle reminders that watching is mandatory. Many people are talking about the Games, and it seems my prediction was correct. Though they say it in hushed whispers, they aren’t happy about having their favorites returned to the arena. Most of the talk I hear is about Katniss and I, and the tragedy of us having been gifted this miracle of a life together only to have it ripped away from us by the Quarter Quell. What interests me is the feeling of betrayal so many express. They feel like they were responsible for Katniss and I being dual victors, that their passion for our love story caused the rule change, and now their wishes are being overturned by the two of us being forced back into the Games. They have so little experience with disagreeing with the Gamemakers, they don’t quite know how to think about it, but they are clearly unhappy. A little nudge in the right direction could do a lot, I think.

My brain is spinning busily with these thoughts when I pass the open door of a small club. From inside I hear a singer and his voice draws me in to the dark, friendly interior. I find a table tucked back in a corner and with a clear view of the small stage. A waitress comes over and I order a cold drink and a sandwich, but my attention is riveted to the performer commanding the room. His unruly red hair sticks up from his head in all directions and his arms are covered in colorful tattoos, penetrating blue eyes sweeping the crowd as he sings. I spend the next hour listening to songs of love, of loss, of hope and of defiance. By the time he finishes, the crowd has grown to swell the capacity of the club and is singing along rhapsodically. He grins hugely as he bows his way from the stage, raising his hands over his head and disappearing behind a dividing wall.

The music was so good I’ve lost track of time and I hastily pay my bill before darting back outside into the late afternoon. Hurrying on my way back to the Training Center I worry Portia will be wondering where I am, others may have noticed my absence by now too. Cursing under my breath that I might have gotten her in trouble, I walk as quickly as I can without drawing attention to myself and gasp with relief when I see the gaudy lobby through the glass doors. Punching the 12th floor button in the elevator I fidget anxiously on the endless ride up. The doors slide open and Effie gives a little startled scream when I burst out.

“What are you doing in there?” she asks, her head pivoting back and forth between me and my room down the hall.

“I- uh- I went out,” I say without conviction.

Her eyes get huge and she claps a lace gloved hand to her mouth. “Out?” she repeats in a strangled whisper, clearly horrified. “Just…out?”

“Yes,” I say, gathering confidence as she is clearly at sea about how to react. I decide the more sure of myself I seem, the less likely she is to question it. “I went shopping.” She blinks at me, unable to register this news. “I need you to do something for me.” Nodding mutely she waits for my request. I’m pretty sure at this point I could ask for a small country and she’d try to get it for me. Her circuits are blown at the act of defiance against the Capitol and she has no idea how to respond. She’s floundering so badly that I take pity on her. “Remember you wanted us to all look like a team?” I remind her. I go on to tell her about the locket I saw in the shop, and to tell her what I want for it. She doesn’t even ask why, just turns with a dazed nod and walks quietly back toward her room to get to work. Smiling, I head for my own room, ready to take on whatever my team is prepared to hand out.

It turns out I wasn’t completely prepared. I had underestimated how deeply attached my team has become to me. When I swing the door open I’m met by three pairs of tragically red eyes, Junius openly sobbing over my hairbrush, and Lyra clutching a drawing I’d made for her on the tour. They immediately begin to sniff loudly, trying to pull themselves together but it’s soggy at best. My chest aches, touched by this show of affection, and I walk over to Junius and pull him into a hug. He clings to me while Selt and Lyra wrap arms around us and we stand together, quietly miserable at the reality confronting us. After a long moment, Junius snorts loudly and pulls back to wipe a gauzy handkerchief across his nose. His eyes meet mine over the delicate fabric and I’m surprised by the glint of steel in them.

“We’re going to make you so beautiful that every citizen with two coins to rub together is going to be throwing them at Haymitch to get you home,” he says with dignified solemnity. I smile and nod my thanks, not wanting to further upset him, but Lyra breaks in with a catch in her voice.

“He’s not coming home,” she chokes. “He’s going to fight to protect Katniss, just like last time.” Tears glitter on her lashes, but she meets my eyes steadily.

Junius freezes for a bare second, but then his chin lifts. “Then he’ll need sponsors even more. Let’s get to work.”

I’m grateful to be required to sit silently for a bit while they set about preparing me for the public. I have no words for how appreciative I am, how much I value their loyalty.

By the time Portia comes in with my outfit, we’ve all embarrassed ourselves sufficiently with our emotional outburst and have moved on to making wildly inappropriate jokes about the arena and the other victors. I’m bent double, gasping for air after Selt’s deadpan imitation of a sponsor receiving painful attentions from file-toothed Enobaria and Portia’s exasperated frown just makes it worse. Giggling uncontrollably, I lift my arms for the strangely heavy tunic to slide over my head. She snugs the waist around, a solid black jumpsuit of sorts that hugs my body all the way to my ankles, only my arms left bare. A heavy black crown is settled on my curls the team have polished to shine like gold. Turning to the mirror, the laughter dies on my lips. Light touches of shadow have chiseled the planes of my face and my eyes appear laser blue, piercing out from a menacing glare, only slightly disrupted by my open mouthed gaping at the transformation.

Portia reaches for the waist again and presses gently. My breath catches in my throat as I come alight, a burning ember glowing with fierce heat and firing the dimmed room with my fury and power. “How?” I gasp incredulously.

“Genius,” she replies with a roguish smile. “And a lot of time staring at fires,” she adds wryly. “No winning favor this time,” she continues seriously as she switches the suit back off. “This time they have to court you. Eyes straight ahead, you don’t need anything from them.”

I nod, this will be easy to pull off. “Thank you, Portia. It’s perfect.”

“Let’s go show them what they’re messing with,” she says. The team bids me good-luck in awed whispers and Portia and I head for the elevator. I’m a little late and Katniss must already be downstairs. Portia punches the button for me, but says she has a couple last minute things to finish up. She reminds me to be aloof and the doors slide shut.

When they open again, it’s onto chaos. People in costumes ranging from magnificent to ridiculous are roaming all around, talking to each other and examining outfits, ignoring desperate handlers. The mood is considerably different from last year with everyone huddled and frightened among strangers and enemies. Now everyone is acquainted, if not friends. And, judging from the murmur of conversation I pick up as I wind my way through the throng, united in their fury against the Capitol forcing them back into this situation.

I finally see Katniss, she’s talking to Finnick Odair. He’s been dressed as close to naked as can be pulled off and makes a striking figure, all young muscle and bronze curls over clear green-blue eyes.  Even so, Katniss is the more compelling of the pair. I stop and move to the side so I can watch her unnoticed. She holds herself proudly, tall and strong. The dramatic make-up only accentuates her command and authority, her sharp gray eyes holding Finnick captive. She is stunning.

A deep need to be with her takes hold of me and I start forward again. Finnick sees me coming and glides away with a barbed smile that makes me wonder what he was talking about. “What did Finnick Odair want?” I ask, coming up beside her. She is even more amazing up close.

She drops her eyelids and leans forward, her lips inches from mine and whispers in a low purr, “He offered me sugar and wanted to know all my secrets.”

I burst out a laugh. “Ugh! Not really,” I implore.

“Really,” she assures me with a smile that detonates in my stomach. “I’ll tell you more when my skin stops crawling.”

To distract myself from the need to hold her that is sending a shiver fighting its way up my arms I look around at the other tributes, milling around in conversations anywhere from eager to furious.

“Do you think we’d have ended up like this if only one of us had won?” I ask her. “Just another part of the freak show?”

“Sure. Especially you,” she answers confidently.

This makes me smile. “Oh. And why especially me?”

“Because you have a weakness for beautiful things, and I don’t,” she answers smugly. “They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you’d be lost entirely.”

She’s kidding, but I answer seriously, unable to keep my eyes from her deep, clear gaze. “Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” I tell her. “Except possibly when it comes to you,” I finish earnestly. The music swells and the doors swing open, letting in the manic screeching of the crowd outside. “Shall we?” I offer my hand to help her into the cart.

Once we’re both in, she puts a hand on my chest. “Hold still,” she commands, and reaches to straighten my crown. “Have you seen your suit turned on?” she asks eagerly. “We’re going to be fabulous again.”

I nod my agreement.  “Absolutely. But Portia says we’re to be very above it all. No waving or anything.” I crane my neck to look around, wondering why we haven’t seen either of the stylists. “Where are they anyway?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, scanning the crowd as well. “Maybe we better go ahead and switch ourselves on.” As the glow begins to creep over our suits, I stare at the way the metal crown smolders in her dark braid. The shadows flicker over her black-lined eyes and she looks out with an otherworldly calm on the mortals who beg for her favor. My throat closes up when she turns her burning gaze to me. “Are we supposed to hold hands this year?” she asks.

I shake my head mutely, unable to come up with a string of words that make sense. “I guess they’ve left it up to us,” I finally force out. We stare for a moment into each other’s eyes and I feel myself falling, it seems like she’s looking straight into my heart and I give myself over to what she will find there. Our hands reach out and clasp automatically.

The chariot rolls forward and the scream of the crowd raises to a fevered howl but we don’t even acknowledge them. In stony silence we ignore their pleas and the gifts they shower over us, right up to the mansion and the President himself. As the anthem rings across the noise of the crowd his stare is riveted to Katniss and I see the hatred there. For just a moment, his eyes meet mine and I bore my gaze into his. He looks away first and I’m glad, because I’m sure I showed my surprise at the fear I find in his cold blue eyes.

Once we’re back inside with the doors shut behind us, Cinna and Portia come find us, full of congratulations on a job well done. Haymitch comes to join us with the tributes from 11, his friend Chaff and the woman Seeder. The women embrace while Chaff offers me his stump to shake, having lost the hand in his Games. He turns to Katniss and pulls her close, planting a huge, wet kiss on her mouth. She splutters and leaps away while the friends roar their laughter. We’re herded toward the elevators and as we stand waiting for the doors, Johanna Mason from District 7 saunters up next to us, dropping her leafy headdress over her shoulder disdainfully.

“Isn’t my costume awful?” she drawls, running her fingers through her short, brown hair. “My stylist’s the biggest idiot in the Capitol. Our tributes have been trees for forty years under her,” she rolls her eyes. She sweeps her dark gaze up and down our brilliantly glowing costumes. “Wish I’d gotten Cinna,” she continues chattily. “You look fantastic.”

Katniss is visibly uncomfortable, and Johanna knows it and loves it. “Yeah,” Katniss replies blandly. “He’s been helping me design my own clothing line. You should see what he does with velvet.” My eyebrows lift and I try to hide my smirk that she was able to name a type of material at all. They continue to chitchat a bit about clothes while we wait for the elevator and Johanna reaches back and lowers her zipper, stepping neatly out of the costume as it falls in a puddle at her feet. She kicks it behind her contemptuously just as the doors ding open and she strides completely naked into the car. I can barely hide my delighted grin as Katniss struggles mightily to look anywhere but at Johanna, her eyes flying frantically around the elevator. Johanna talks to me calmly about my art, her dark gaze glinting her wicked awareness of the consternation she’s causing. I answer her questions innocuously, not entirely successful at keeping the twitch from the corner of my lips but my eyes staying determinedly locked on hers. When the doors open onto her floor, she winks playfully and leaves without a backward glance. Seeder rolls her eyes but Chaff nudges me appreciatively and I can’t keep the grin from spreading across my face. Once we’re finally alone Katniss flings my hand away and I burst out laughing.

“What?” she snarls, as we step out onto our own floor.

I shake my head, unable to stop chortling at how affronted she is. “It’s you, Katniss,” I say. “Can’t you see?” It’s hilarious that they all see the weak spot the same. They’ve seen her in the arena, know the position she holds in the Capitol citizens’ hearts. They know what a threat she is and they all are playing the same mind game with her, to my complete and utter delight.

“What’s me?” she demands.

“Why they’re all acting like this. Finnick with his sugar cubes and Chaff kissing you and that whole thing with Johanna stripping down.” I keep waiting for her smile to break but she just stares at me intently. I try to smother the laughter bubbling up again, watching her flounder to understand. “They’re playing with you because you’re so…you know,” I finish, unable to meet her eyes.

“No, I don’t know,” she insists.

“It’s like when you wouldn’t look at me naked in the arena even though I was half-dead,” I explain.  “You’re so…pure.”

“I am not!” she retorts angrily, and the blush that races up her throat sets me off again. “I’ve been practically ripping your clothes off every time there’s been a camera for the last year!”

Her indignation is adorable. “Yeah, but… I mean, for the Capitol you’re pure,” I offer. “For me, you’re perfect,” I say, trying to unruffle her feathers. “They’re just teasing you.”

“No, they’re laughing at me, and so are you!” she declares hotly.

I shake my head. “No,” I say solemnly, but I can feel the grin tugging at my lips.

Haymitch and Effie step from the elevator and I wonder how angry it will make Katniss if I share the story with Haymitch. And if it will be worth it anyway. Just as I’m deciding it’s totally worth it, Haymitch’s face grows pale and hard.

We all follow his gaze and Effie claps and chirps jubilantly, “Looks like they’ve got you a matched set this year.”

The two red-headed Avoxes standing silently at attention next to our door are familiar. The girl is the one Katniss can’t forgive herself for not helping in the woods, who was our servant last year. I stare at the man, though, unable to place him. And then my heart grows cold and a shiver of grief runs over my skin. The second Avox is Darius.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Katniss and Haymitch have a terrible night, both consumed by the horror of what’s happened to their friend. I didn’t know him well, we spoke a few times in the Hob, but he was always so ready to chat and had a quick and easy laugh. I didn’t count him as a personal friend, but that this has happened to him because he tried to do what was right makes me sick.

After dinner we watch the parade on the television, but the shock of finding Darius coupled with seeing the broken and decrepit tributes in ridiculous costumes leaves a heavy pall hanging over everyone. Katniss disappears into her room immediately afterward and Effie watches her go with a blank stare. She turns her eyes to mine and I can see the war waging inside her. Her lifelong experience is telling her the Capitol is infallible, but she finds herself disagreeing with what is happening, and she doesn’t know how to process it. It’s like she’s lacking the language to think about it. I reach over and take her hand, pressing it gently and her eyes suddenly focus, then grief clouds their brightness.

“I- I- well,” she says scratchily, before rallying. “It’s another big day tomorrow. You should get your rest. We all should.” With a bright smile pinned to her lips, she trots from the room, her clicking heels echoing in the stillness behind her.

Cinna and Portia say good-night, Cinna squeezing Haymitch’s shoulder before leaving. Haymitch stays slumped in the chair, not looking at anything in particular.

“Do you want a drink?” I offer gently. He grunts and shrugs, and the weariness in his face is heartbreaking. “What can I do?” I ask.

He stares at me for a long moment, his dark gray eyes holding mine. “Get her out,” he growls.

“I will,” I swear softly.

We sit silently together for a while. He doesn’t want to talk, but he also doesn’t want to be alone. Finally he heaves himself from the chair and slaps my shoulder before walking stiffly down the hallway to bed. When I go to my own room I stop to check on Katniss, knocking lightly on her door, but she doesn’t answer. Standing quietly with my hand pressed to the panel, I wish I could take her pain for her. Undoubtedly she blames herself for Darius. Feeling useless, I turn and make my way to my room.

In my exhaustion I’m unable to stay awake and fend off the dark. Nightmares slide in and out of each other. Dreams where Katniss repeatedly throws herself in front of Darius, Gale, me. All of us cowering before the whistling lash that lands on her instead. Sometimes Effie watches sadly, sometimes she helps the Peacekeeper. Haymitch is always shackled on the side, screaming and thrashing against the chains that keep him from us. When I finally break from the pull of sleep I sit up on my bed, panting and shivering and trying to convince myself it wasn’t real.

A few hours later I take a quick shower and go blearily to find breakfast. Haymitch beat me to the dining room, already drunk and working through another bottle. I slide into my spot with a plate of eggs and toast and a cup of juice. I begin to eat silently, not sure whether he feels like conversation this morning, and pretty sure I don’t just at the moment.

“Didn’t sleep?” he grunts around a mouthful, frowning at my hollow eyes and pale face.

I shake my head. “I wish I hadn’t,” I admit ruefully. He nods his understanding.

“Strategy today,” he says. “Time for a plan.” He waits for me to respond but I just keep eating. I honestly can’t think of anything to offer.

“I want you to make nice at training today,” he says. “Make some allies.”

This moves me from my stupor. I shake my head. “Huh-uh,” I say immediately. “No way. They all know each other already, lots of them are friends, and they all know what a threat we are. How could we possibly trust them?”

He’s shaking his head doggedly. “You’re missing the point,” he insists. “That’s exactly why you need to team up. If you go on your own, it will be two against twenty-two. They do know what a threat you are, and they will all band together to take you out first. You won’t stand a chance.”

What he’s saying chills me. He may be right as well. It’s what I would do in their place, I think, and then hate myself for the thought. While I’m thinking over his words, Effie comes in, her cheery bubbliness having reasserted itself overnight.

“Good morning, boys!” she twitters. “I have surprises!” Her eyes alight, she hands Haymitch and me each a small gift box and stands, hands clasped, waiting excitedly. Haymitch opens his and peers inside, his mouth pursing in distaste.

“What the he-” he begins, but I swing a sharp kick at him under the table. He grunts but then his face smoothes out of its scowl and he lifts the bangle of golden flames from the box. “Oh, wow,” he says a little too enthusiastically, sliding it onto his wrist. “It’s really great, Effie. Thanks.”

She beams and generously waves away his thanks then turns her bright eyes to me. “Now yours, Peeta. It’s just like you asked for.” I open the small box carefully and lift out the hinged, golden locket. The mockingjay engraving glints in the light and I smile softly, liking the little way it ties me to Katniss. Sliding my finger across the surface, it slides apart to reveal three faces smiling up at me. Katniss’ mother, a beautiful portrait I recognize from when we first came home last year; Prim, bright eyes and sweet smile glowing with happiness; and myself, a candid photo taken when Jasper announced his engagement to Lila.

“Thank you, Effie,” I say earnestly. “It’s perfect. You moved so quickly!” Her smile widens at the compliment for her efficiency.

“Well, I do have some pull here in the Capitol,” she says with triumphant modesty. “And now we really look like a team!”

“Speaking of the team,” Haymitch mutters darkly, “where’s your partner?”

“I think she had kind of a rough night too,” I say, glancing worriedly down the hall toward Katniss’ room. I haven’t seen her since the chariot recap last night.

“She ordered breakfast in her room,” Effie offers with a frowny pout. “I think she’s upset.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes toward me with a ‘ya think?’ stare, but only thanks Effie for the information and tips his head back to chug from his bottle. Eventually Effie leaves to take care of some business and Haymitch is growing visibly frustrated with Katniss blowing off the strategy session. About half past nine he shoves his chair back from the table and stomps down the hall to bang on her door and shout for her to join us. I rub at my tired eyes and wish again I could think of some way to help them deal with their grief before they destroy each other.

She finally emerges, dragging her feet down the hall and he glares at her, snarling, “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” she retorts. “I slept in after the mutilated-tongue nightmares kept me up half the night.”

Haymitch flinches and eases off. “All right, never mind. Today, in training, you’ve got two jobs. One, stay in love.”

“Obviously,” she rolls her eyes.

“And two, make some friends.”

“No,” she shakes her head predictably. “I don’t trust any of them, I can’t stand most of them, and I’d rather operate with just the two of us.”

“That’s what I said at first, but-” I try to talk to her about it, but Haymitch overrides me.

“But it won’t be enough,” he says gruffly. “You’re going to need more allies this time around.”

They spend the next few minutes going back and forth, but I can see Katniss is going to come around. She just needs time to adjust to the idea. I watch Haymitch talk to her. He’s a great strategist at this kind of thing, I wonder why he can’t figure out how to handle Katniss better. In the end she says she’ll try, though she looks like she’d rather chew glass.

Effie reappears to escort us downstairs, but Haymitch shoos her away, telling her we can’t be walked down like children. She is visibly anxious about it and fusses over us like a mother hen until the doors slide shut on her. When the elevator bumps to a stop, I reach for Katniss’ hand and she meets mine with hers. The doors open and we step forward, united and in love. And almost completely alone. Only Brutus and Enobaria from 2 are here, strutting around and looking delighted to be back. By the ten o’clock start time, only about half of the tributes have shown up and I question if those not present are showing defiance, hopelessness or indifference.

After the routine rundown of each station, we’re released to go where we want and Katniss suggests we split up. She says to cover more ground, but I wonder if she’s looking for a little space. She heads for the knots and snares and I join Chaff and Brutus at the spear throwing station. Brutus spends his time so obviously trying to prove he can keep up with the “youngsters” that it’s almost painful to watch. He constantly puts down everyone around him and never misses an opportunity to flex and call attention to his physique. Chaff has an underhanded way of mocking him so that Brutus doesn’t even realize it’s happening. I’m constantly turning away or faking a cough to cover my laughter. When Chaff convinces Brutus that all the kids are screaming, “Imaijit” after a goal I have to duck down and pretend to tie my shoe, shoulders shaking as Brutus hurls his spear and howls, “Imaijit!” at the top of his lungs. I look up to see Finnick watching us, shaking his head and a sly smile in his eyes.

A few more people have shown up and I wander over to the knife throwing station. It takes a totally different mindset from spears and I know I could be much better. Cecilia, the woman from 8, is here and has a remarkable talent for it. To my surprise she offers me some pointers and helps me improve my accuracy quite a bit.

Cashmere and Gloss, the tributes from 1, join us and ask Cecilia kindly about her children. I thought they meant well, but they barely hide a shared smirk when Cecilia’s eyes fill with tears.

Finnick saunters over to join us and his sea green eyes rake up and down the brother and sister before he drawls slowly, “No children for either of you then? Probably best, actually. Weak chins and close-set eyes are so unattractive, don’t you find?” My eyebrows shoot up as the pair color deeply and take a subtle step apart from each other, even as Cashmere makes a filthy retort. Finnick bows deeply and tells Cashmere to give his regards to his mother. Just as I ready myself to jump between them, Johanna glides over, completely naked again and effectively distracting Cashmere’s menace.

“Your girlfriend is working on setting Nuts and Volts on fire I think,” she purrs, nodding toward the fire-making station. Following her gaze, I see Katniss is sitting with the pair from 3, the three of them studiously chinking flint and metal together trying to get it to spark. Johanna slinks away to the wrestling mats and begins oiling herself up while I ponder if her well-timed arrival was coincidence. Meanwhile, the circle of knife-throwers have devolved into a bawdy competition regarding each other’s mothers. Cecilia looks much brighter and Chaff doubles over when she deadpans a slam about his mother regarding campfires and wieners.

“On that note,” Finnick snickers, “it’s lunchtime.”

Still grinning, we head for the cafeteria and begin pulling the tables into one long space so we can all sit together. I look around trying to find Katniss and finally see her ladling a thick, hearty stew into her bowl. Hurrying over I come up behind her. I know we’ve been in the same room all morning, but I’ve missed her and I’m happy to be with her again.

“How’s it going?” I ask, unable to keep the smile off my face.

“Good. Fine,” she says woodenly. “I like the District 3 victors, Wiress and Beetee.”

“Really?” I ask. Haymitch isn’t going to be happy about this. “They’re something of a joke to the others,” I say gently.

“Why does that not surprise me?” she asks crossly.

“Johanna’s named them Nuts and Volts,” I offer. Though, thinking about it, I’m not really sure which is which. “I think she’s Nuts and he’s Volts.”

“And so I’m stupid for thinking they might be useful,” she spits. “Because of something Johanna Mason said while she was oiling up her breasts for wrestling.”

I blink at her, caught off guard by her vehemence. “Actually I think the nickname’s been around for years. And I didn’t mean that as an insult,” I tell her apologetically. “I’m just sharing information.”

“Well, Wiress and Beetee are smart,” she glares at me. “They invent things. They could tell by sight that a force field had been put up between us and the Gamemakers. And if we have to have allies, I want them.” She flings the ladle back into the pot and gravy splatters out all over us.

Dabbing at my shirt with a napkin I watch her from under my lashes. “What are you so angry about?” I ask tightly. “Because I teased you on the elevator? I’m sorry. I thought you would just laugh about it.”

“Forget it,” she says, looking away. “It’s a lot of things.”

I knew she would blame herself. “Darius,” I guess.

“Darius. The Games. Haymitch making us team up with the others,” she lists sullenly.

I can only fix one of those. Even though I agree with Haymitch, it won’t work if Katniss is hating every second and doesn’t actually trust any allies we make. “It can just be you and me, you know,” I offer gently.

“I know,” she says, deflating. “But maybe Haymitch is right.” She glowers at me darkly, “Don’t tell him I said so, but he usually is, where the Games are concerned.”

“Well, you can have final say about our allies.” I hope this will make her feel better, I’m relieved she sees the sense in it. “But right now, I’m leaning toward Chaff and Seeder.”

She shakes her head and wrinkles her nose. “I’m okay with Seeder, not Chaff,” she says and I focus on not smiling. “Not yet, anyway,” she adds.

“Come on and eat with him,” I urge. “I promise, I won’t let him kiss you again.” The smile takes over, but she doesn’t seem to mind and brings her tray over to the table. She doesn’t relax, but seems less uncomfortable with the rest of the group. I can only think of that as successful.

The rest of the afternoon is spent moving from station to station, working on the skills at each stop but mostly getting to know the other tributes. The pairs from 1 and 2 are definitely not interested, and I’m glad. I don’t like the way they treat the others around them. Johanna would be a strong ally, but she’s so ferociously independent I don’t think she would be willing. And she and Katniss together seems like a colossally bad idea anyway. The tributes from 6 are completely strung out on morphling and spend the entire time painting their wasted bodies at the camouflage station. I do enjoy the half-hour I spend with them though. They tumble over each other trying to explain to me how the drug amplifies the colors, how the world shines through its wavering lens. The others have advantages and disadvantages, but I keep coming back to Chaff and Seeder. They seem steady and reliable, and strong but resourceful. The trouble being of course, choosing people you like leaves you facing people you like. It’s an impossible situation.

A growing murmur draws my attention and I look over to see the entire group have stopped what they are doing and are staring at Katniss. She’s at the archery station, not needing to hide it this time, and is definitely not hiding her talent. She changes from still targets to moving ones, to multiple flying targets and I find myself holding my breath as she picks each one infallibly from the air. She looks like she doesn’t even remember where she is, the calm serenity on her face is transformational. Her eyes are bright and her lips curve up slightly in a tiny smile. The confidence streaming off of her is intoxicating and I feel myself leaning toward her, like being pulled by a magnet. Finally, she turns and sees everyone watching her and the spell is broken. She drops her eyes and I watch her shrink back into herself, but it’s too late. Everyone in the room has seen her.

At dinner, Haymitch is flabbergasted by the news that at least half the tributes are after her as an ally. When I tell him about her exhibition he stares at her through narrowed eyes. “You’re that good? So good that Brutus wants you?”

This news is shocking enough to poor Haymitch, but Katniss levels him with her next comment. “But I don’t want Brutus,” she replies calmly. “I want Mags and District 3.”

I bite my lip to stifle my laughter at Haymitch’s frozen horror. And then he blows out a loud, gusty sigh. “Of course you do,” he nods. “I’ll tell everybody you’re still making up your mind.”

Over the next two days we train, eat as much as we can hold, and try to feel out our fellow competitors. Unhappily, instead of deciding who I want to fight with, I’m finding people I’d like to be friends with. Finnick’s dry humor is sharp and fun, and I suspect he’s covering a very soft heart. It’s evident in his devotion to Mags. Same with Johanna. I think her caustic front covers a deeply hurting self. Wiress and Beetee are actually charming, in their own soft, absent-minded way. And the poor tributes from 6, whom we’ve just started calling the morphlings, are so terribly wrecked that I just want to protect them from all the horror around them.

On the final day we have our private sessions, which seem silly since everyone knows each other’s skills and talents so well. At lunch there’s a heavy sense of finality as we all eye one another, thinking the same thing, I’m sure. These people have known each other for years, how much worse must it be for them when it’s this terrible for me, having just begun to know them over the past few days?

Suddenly Finnick leaps onto the table and demands silence. “My secret talent,” he announces, and begins reciting a filthy poem about a fisherman’s daughter. Chaff says he plans to dance and Mags mumbles she’s just going to take a nap. Enobaria bares her filed fangs at the group and growls that she is going to tell jokes.

The silence in the room grows as the tributes are called out one by one to perform for the judges. Katniss is looking desperate and trapped by the time it’s down to just the two of us. I reach across the table and hold her hands, trying to transmit comfort to her. “Decided what to do for the Gamemakers yet?” I ask lightly.

She shakes her head and smiles crookedly. “I can’t really use them for target practice this year, with the force field up and all.” I smile back and she sighs. “Maybe make some fishhooks. What about you?”

“Not a clue,” I answer wryly. Last year my performance was disastrous, and I don’t know that I’ve become much more impressive since then. “I keep wishing I could bake a cake or something,” I say with a grin.

“Do some more camouflage,” she suggests helpfully.

“If the morphlings have left me anything to work with,” I shrug. “They’ve been glued to that station since training started.”

Silence settles over us as we wait. I’m thinking I kind of hope Chaff did dance when suddenly Katniss bursts out, “How are we going to kill these people, Peeta?”

A sharp pain pierces my chest and I sink my head down onto our joined hands. “I don’t know,” I whisper raggedly.

“I don’t want them as allies,” she cries frantically. “Why did Haymitch want us to get to know them? It’ll make it so much harder than last time. Except for Rue maybe.” She pauses, thinking back. “But I guess I never really could’ve killed her, anyway. She was just too much like Prim.”

The image of tiny Rue, only twelve years old, peeking out from around Thresh flits through my mind. She never stood a chance. The others at least had a chance. I lift my head and look intently into Katniss’ gray eyes. “Her death was the most despicable, wasn’t it?” I ask, though I already know.

“None of them were very pretty,” she replies with a shiver, but I’m thinking of the last image of Rue, covered in flowers and mourned by her entire district.

My name is called and I give Katniss’ hands a last squeeze before turning and walking calmly into the large, empty room where the Gamemakers wait in their protected bubble. Drinking and eating, judging and deciding people’s fates from their safety and comfort, it turns my stomach. I walk to the middle of the room and say plainly, “Peeta Mellark. District 12.” Turning to the camouflage station I quickly gather what I need and return to the large empty space. Dropping to my knees I work quickly, what I’m doing hidden from their sight by my body. It takes a little longer than I’d planned and just as I finish, from behind me one of the judges calls, “Mr. Mellark, what are you doing?”

I stand and face them, my chin tilting up and my fists clenched at my sides. “What I’m doing is what you’ve done,” I say clearly. And then I step aside to let them see.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Standing in the shower, I let the water pour down over me. I close my eyes and tip my head down, the hot needles driving into my neck and shoulders but doing nothing to relax the tension in my muscles. I shake my head, reprimanding myself yet again. “Stupid,” I mutter angrily into the spray. I pass my hand under the soap dispenser and a frothy, citrusy palmful squirts out. I scrub it into my skin but my hands still won’t come clean. Same as the last 15 minutes I tried. Finally giving it up as hopeless, I step from the shower and the drying mat’s warm rush of air sends chills across my skin.

Scrubbing the towel over my hair I catch my own eye in the mirror and my hands still. What could I have been thinking? I know the odds are already stacked ridiculously against Katniss making it out of the arena a second time. How could I antagonize the Gamemakers like that? But the memory of Rue’s bright, optimistic face hovering in the night sky hardens my gaze. They should have to face what they’ve done the same way the victors do, have to dream at night of the children who lost their lives because of us. Katniss would agree with me.

When I join the others in the dining room for dinner, Haymitch jumps right in as soon as we’re served. “All right, so how did your private sessions go?” he looks at us both from under raised eyebrows. I meet Katniss’ eyes nervously, not relishing what Haymitch will have to say to me.

“You first,” she prompts. “It must have been really special. I had to wait forty minutes to go in.”

I swallow a mouthful of soup and search for a way to present it. “Well, I-I did the camouflage thing, like you suggested, Katniss,” I say haltingly. “I mean, I used the dyes,” I qualify.

Portia is watching me suspiciously. “To do what?” she asks shrewdly.

“You painted something, didn’t you?” Katniss guesses. “A picture.”

“Did you see it?” I search her face, trying to gauge her reaction.

“No,” she replies. “But they’d made a real point of covering it up.”

Of course they had, I think. I wonder about the servants who must have done the scrubbing. What would they have thought of the painting? Of the reminder?

“What did you paint, Peeta?” Effie prods. She dabs her handkerchief to suddenly glistening lashes. “Was it a picture of Katniss?” she asks tremulously.

“Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” Katniss jibes, and my lips quirk at the barely suppressed disdain in her voice.

“To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you,” she gushes and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks under her adoring gaze. “That’s what everyone in the Capitol’s expecting, anyway. Didn’t he volunteer to go in with you?” she asks, looking around as though we were somehow too slow to understand the obvious. It matches what I’d heard when I went into the city, but it means I’m going to need to think of something fresh to get their attention at the interviews tomorrow night.

“Actually,” I say, distracted by this new problem, “I painted a picture of Rue. How she looked after Katniss had covered her in flowers.”

The silence in the room is sudden and dense. Finally, Haymitch draws a slow breath and asks in a low voice, “And what exactly were you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I just wanted to hold them accountable, if only for a moment,” I say fervently. “For killing that little girl.”

Effie flinches visibly and her voice trembles when she gasps, “That sort of thinking,” she lowers her eyes and whispers hoarsely, “it’s forbidden, Peeta. Absolutely.” She raises her eyes to mine and I see it again, the conflict within her. “You’ll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss.” And I want to hug her for the worry etched on her face. She is thinking only of us instead of herself for possibly the first time ever.

“I have to agree with Effie on this one,” Haymitch adds. He doesn’t look angry, only worried. Frightened for us, and my heart goes out to him. Cinna and Portia look equally anxious, but then I meet Katniss’ clear, wondering eyes. My lips curl to a smile at the fierce light in her gaze. She approves.

“I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane’s name on it,” she tosses out lightly.

My heart drops and I pull back the hand that instinctively reached to protect her. The others are equally thrown, Haymitch and Portia swearing under their breath and Effie giving a little scream. Cinna blinks at Katniss, his mouth dropping open. “You…hung…Seneca Crane?” he gasps in disbelief.

“Yes,” she nods. “I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose,” she says contritely, but the glance she shoots at me sparkles with defiance.

“Oh, Katniss,” Effie moans quietly. “How did you even know about that?”

“Is it a secret?” Katniss asks. “President Snow didn’t act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for me to know,” she says pensively. It’s too much for Effie and she scoots back her chair, wobbling quickly from the room on her spiky heels, face hidden in her napkin.

“Now I’ve upset Effie,” Katniss laments, sounding sorry for the first time. “I should have lied and said I shot some arrows.”

I shake my head and try to fight the smile from my face. “You’d have thought we planned it,” I say ruefully, while Portia stares back and forth between the two of us.

“Didn’t you?” she asks through a clenched jaw, her fingers pressing to her eyes.

“No,” Katniss replies, looking to me with a quizzical tip to her head. “Neither of us even knew what we were going to do before we went in.”

I turn away from the intensity of her stare, my heart fluttering at the steady way she scrutinizes me, as though trying to puzzle me out. “And, Haymitch?” I watch him from under my lashes. “We decided we don’t want any other allies in the arena.”

“Good,” he grunts in disgust. “Then I won’t be responsible for you killing off any of my friends with your stupidity.”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” Katniss says smoothly.

Haymitch can’t even speak to us for the rest of the meal, even Cinna and Portia are rendered speechless. We finish and move quietly to the television room to watch the training scores be awarded. Effie joins us, eyes red from crying, but looking determined to be brave. The Careers receive strong scores as we’d expect, the others hitting in the middle or low numbers, depending on how wrecked their bodies are.  As our turn approaches, I feel a sense of inevitability settle over me. Katniss bites at her nails and asks nervously, “Have they ever given a zero?”

“No,” Cinna answers in a slow drawl, “but there’s a first time for everything.”

And he’s correct. Katniss and I have both scored perfect twelves. I close my eyes briefly and Katniss looks anxiously to Haymitch. “Why did they do that?” she asks.

“So that the others will have no choice but to target you,” he answers expressionlessly. The weary resignation on his face sends a chill through my blood. “Go to bed,” he mutters. “I can’t stand to look at either one of you.”

In gloomy silence, Katniss and I rise and make our way down the hallway to her bedroom. When we reach her door I begin to say goodnight but without a word, she suddenly steps close and winds her arms around me, pressing tight against my chest. Like they were made for it, my arms wrap her in and I hold her close, sheltering her from the despair hanging over us. We stand twined together and I close my eyes, breathing the familiar scent of her hair and reveling in how naturally we fit together. I’m abruptly aware of how little time I have left, how precious each moment is, and I pull her even closer.

“I’m sorry if I made things worse,” she whispers.

“No worse than I did,” I smile. “Why did you do it, anyway?” I ask, pulling back and searching her face for an answer.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “To show them I’m more than just a piece in their Games?”

I snort a laugh, recalling our last night on the roof of this building. A year ago. A lifetime ago. “Me too,” I nod. I think back on this past year, on going from only wanting to get Katniss home without embarrassing myself too badly, to being on the top of the list of people the Capitol could happily watch swing from the highest gallows. “And I’m not saying I’m not going to try. To get you home, I mean,” I tell her earnestly. “But if I’m perfectly honest about it…”

“If you’re perfectly honest about it,” she overrides in a steady voice, “you think President Snow has probably given them direct orders to make sure we die in the arena anyway.”

“It’s crossed my mind.” No need to detail the nightmares that often accompany the thought. But it’s not fear that tugs at my dreams. It’s regret. If I’m unable to keep Katniss safe, if we both die at the hands of the Gamemakers, I want it to mean something. I want Panem to know what the Capitol has done, what it is doing. “But even if that happens,” I hold her gray eyes steadily with mine, “everyone will know we’ve gone out fighting, right?”

“Everyone will,” she answers. I nod silently. We both understand. If we lose our lives, at least a message will be sent to those trying to make it better. They’ll be able to use our deaths to rally others around their cause. Enough dying, enough killing. It’s time to find a resolution.

“So what should we do with our last few days?” Katniss asks with forced lightness.

I only have one answer. “I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you.”

She tightens her grip on my hand. “Come on then,” she says softly, and opens the door to her room, pulling me in after her.

The windows are bright with morning sunshine when I open my eyes. Katniss is wrapped tightly around me, her leg thrown across mine and her breathing soft and deep. I smile as I gently brush a lock of her hair from tickling my lips. I lie grinning at the ceiling as a warm glow spreads from my stomach up through my limbs and rising to my hairline. My muscles luxuriate in the well-rested lack of tension and I can’t recall the last time I was so relaxed. I feel Katniss’ eyelashes flutter against my throat and her breath comes more shallowly. With a groaning stretch she rolls back slightly to look into my eyes, but keeps her arms tight around me.

“No nightmares,” I smile.

“No nightmares,” she agrees serenely. “You?”

“None. I’d forgotten what a real night’s sleep feels like.”

We lie together contentedly, talking of small things, in no hurry to begin our day of prep for the interviews tomorrow night. A soft knock on the door precedes the entrance of the redheaded girl. She shyly hands over a folded paper and ducks quickly back out into the hall. Katniss’ eyes grow round as she reads the contents of the note. It seems Effie and Haymitch have decided they can’t prepare us any better than we are, and the coaching sessions have been cancelled.

“Really?” I demand, reading over the note for myself, hardly daring to believe such good fortune. “Do you know what this means?” I ask giddily, a fizzy buzzing beginning to zip through my skin.  “We’ll have the whole day to ourselves.” I feel like just saying it out loud will call down a jinx on us and it will be snatched away.

“It’s too bad we can’t go anywhere,” Katniss twists her mouth regretfully.

I shake my head excitedly, “Who says we can’t?”

In no time, lugging a basket full of delicious foods and a pile of blankets, we thump our way up the stairs and outside onto the roof in the bright, warm sun. I throw my arms wide, my face tipped up toward the huge, sparkling blue sky and laugh out loud. Katniss grins and shakes her head at me, spreading the blanket in the middle of the riotously blooming garden. We spend the entire day outside in the glittering sunshine surrounded by the soft tinkling of the wind chimes and the heady fragrance of the flowers. The morning passes quickly with extravagant breakfasts, lazy cloud gazing, hilarious stories about the other victors, and an intensive discussion with elaborate evidence for either side about whether or not there’s anything going on between Haymitch and Effie.

After lunch, I pull out my sketchbook and add what I know to be the final drawing of Katniss to its pages. I delight in the details of her glinting eyes, the smile that lifts the corner of her lips, the slight dimple at the side of her mouth. I trace my finger gently across the page and then smile to lift my hand and trace down her jawline. Late in the afternoon she gathers an armful of flowers and lies down with her head in my lap, idly twining the blooms into a crown while I wind my fingers through her shining hair, assuring her I’m practicing knots for snares.

I watch her eyelashes brush across her cheeks as her gaze sweeps over the vast blue sky and I’m achingly aware of how soon this idyll will pass. My fingers slow as I feel myself pulled into the warmth surrounding us, like a bubble of amber preserving us in glowing happiness.

Katniss senses the stillness and tips her head to the side questioningly. “What?” she asks.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever,” I tell her softly.

“Okay,” she agrees, and I smile at her uncharacteristic acceptance of the sentiment.

“Then you’ll allow it?” I tease her.

“I’ll allow it,” she nods, and I’m flooded with a sweet, low heat as she drifts blithely to sleep.

I keep watch over her as she rests, my eyes on the sky as it shifts subtly through more shades of blue than I’d have thought existed before burning with a gilded orange blazing across the horizon. Its beauty is breathtaking and I’m overwhelmed with a desire to share it with Katniss. Gently shaking her shoulder I watch the colors reflect in her eyes as they flutter open and take in the view. “I didn’t think you’d want to miss it,” I whisper.

“Thanks,” she smiles and sits up, scooting back into the circle of my arms and leaning her head back against my shoulder. We watch in silence as the last flaming edge disappears and the velvety darkness swallows the last light. No one comes to call us to dinner and we gratefully spend the last few hours in the deepening black, talking easily and huddling close together until bedtime when we make our way quietly to Katniss’ bedroom and the heavy, happy tiredness pulls us into dreamless sleep.

A sharp, high pitched squeal jolts me awake and I leap up in the bed, my arm flying out to cover Katniss. Octavia, hovering at the foot of the bed, quivers with barely suppressed, squeaky sobs at the discovery of Katniss and I wrapped together in sleep. I scrub my hands over my eyes as Venia reprimands her sharply and she trips from the room, a dainty lace square pressed to her lips, shoulders shuddering with sobs.

With deft fingers I attach the straps of my prosthetic and heave myself from the bed. I wink at Katniss over their shoulders as Venia and Flavius bestow damp hugs on me and I head back to my room to meet my own prep team, grateful they are slightly less waterlogged than her crew. Even though they are less effusive about it, they are clearly upset and occasionally pause to blow gustily into a hankie, or wipe surreptitiously at red-rimmed eyes.

When they can no longer invent reasons to stroke and prod me they step back and turn me toward the full length triple mirror. Even shirtless, wearing only shorts, the effect is amazing. My hair glimmers like burnished gold and my skin is smooth as marble, glowing as if lit from within. My eyes, always a striking blue, have become brighter, a laser gleam from under subtly darkened eyebrows. I turn to my team, devoted to the last, and say my final good-bye. By the time Portia arrives with my outfit, we’re all a little watery and I clear my throat and wipe the back of my hand over my eyes, smiling sheepishly. She herds them out, gently but firmly, while I pull myself together.

Standing in front of her for inspection, she rakes her eyes up and down before smiling her approval. I smile back, everything seeming a little more poignant, a little more touching. Her eyes fall, though, and she purses her lips regretfully. “I didn’t get to choose your interview outfit for tonight,” she tells me with regret written clearly in her eyes.

“You didn’t?” I echo, confused. That’s too bizarre, I can’t quite grasp it. “Who did?”

She unzips the heavy garment bag in one quick motion and shakes out the heavy, dark tuxedo within. I’m lost, it just looks like a suit. It’s nice, but nothing special. Certainly nothing Portia would ever come up with. “President Snow asked that you wear it tonight,” she tells me, and the sadness in her eyes is the clue I needed. I finally understand. My wedding suit. Of course. Anger burns across my eyes and I shake my head firmly.

“No,” I say adamantly, but Portia takes my hand and meets my gaze steadily.

“You trust me, right?” she asks simply. Of course I do, she knows this. “It’s okay,” she says. And so I put on the suit, though it feels more like I’m dressing for a funeral than a wedding. The fine, white gloves are the final touch and they make my skin crawl. “Here,” she says after easing the leg down over my prosthetic and twitching it into place. “I have something for you.” She searches in her pocket and reaches out toward me with a small square.

I look down at it in my hand and Gale’s bright, serious eyes look back at me. “You got it,” I say, relieved. “Thank you, Portia. This means a lot.” She watches me steadily, obviously curious why I want the photograph but not asking. And I’m not offering it up, I’m not ready to share yet. Realizing this, she squeezes my hand and tells me she’ll meet me at the elevator. I thank her again and shut the door behind her.

I pull the locket Effie had made for me from around my neck and slide my finger over the tiny catch, opening the three panels. The trio of happy faces stare up at me and I smile a little guiltily to remember how thrilled Effie had been when I’d asked her for it. I didn’t risk having her put a picture of my rival inside, she never would have been able to keep that little tidbit to herself, I’m sure.  At first I meant to replace my picture with Gale’s, but instead I carefully slide his in over my own, hiding it from sight but only I will know it’s still there. I rub my fingers gently over the locket before ducking my head through the delicate chain again, patting it safely under my shirt. This is the ace up my sleeve, my best chance to convince Katniss to fight her way free in case, as I suspect, she secretly harbors other plans. Maybe I’m not playing entirely fair, but I couldn’t care less. I’m playing this game to win, at any cost.

My greatest worry is that neither she nor I will have the chance to decide for ourselves if we will try to win our way from the arena. I need a plan to protect her from Snow, to make it too costly for him to simply kill her in the Games. I have to find a way to ensure that the nation would rise against him if he kills her by some mechanism instead of giving her a fair chance. They already love her, but all the victors are beloved. And the silly, empty-headed citizens adore milking the tragedy of losing someone they care for. I need something stronger, something to really reach them. My spinning thoughts suddenly jar to a stop as a notion pops into focus. My eyes grow distant as the idea takes shape in my mind.

Snapping back to awareness, I see the clock and swear under my breath. I walk quickly to the elevator, worried I’ve kept the others waiting. As I hurry to join them, my apology dies on my lips when Katniss turns to face me. She glows softly in white silk, the very embodiment of a beautiful bride. My breath catches in my throat and I stop, staring. She meets my eyes cynically, holding out the full skirt in apologetic disgust, but I can only think how gorgeous she is, rich silk and shimmering pearls from head to toe. Forcing myself to move forward, I accept her compliments on my own appearance dazedly, and it takes catching the flicker of amusement in Haymitch’s eye to snap me back to my senses. Even so, my mouth is dry and I can’t tear my eyes from her as we wait our turns for the interview with Caesar Flickerman, resplendent this year in lavender.

Once the tributes begin talking, however, my attention sharpens and I’m fascinated by what is happening on the stage. The victors are furious at being forced to return, but many of them are also shrewd enough to play to their strengths to manipulate the crowd to fight Caesar for control of the room. Cashmere and Gloss tug at their heartstrings, while Beetee brings questions of the legality of this Quell to mind. Finnick has most of the room in wailing tears with a love poem they all assume he has recited for them, and by the time Johanna asks if something can’t be done, many of them are demanding the same thing. I hide my smile in my sleeve as Seeder and Chaff subtly impugn Snow’s power to do anything about it and the crowd is falling apart by the time Katniss rises to take her turn.

They are fainting, crying, screaming out, and the sight of her sparkling under the lights, dressed for her wedding that will never take place sends them into a frenzy. By the time she can be heard over their laments, she has only moments left to speak. She delivers a gut punch like a professional, gulping back tears that she won’t dance with Caesar and all of them at her long anticipated marriage to the only ever double victor, saved from demise by their devotion to our love. But then, showing off the gown, she lifts her arms gracefully over her head and begins to twirl, and the beauty of the gown blackens around the edges, smoldering and smoking. I leap forward but a Peacekeeper grabs me and by the time I’ve struggled free from him, I can see the flames consuming her are harmless and I know it to be Cinna’s work. I watch in gaping admiration as the flickering dies away and she slows her spinning. The crowd is rapt, silent and breathless and I turn my gaze to them. I beam with pride, they are eating from her hand. But when I look back to Katniss, my heart slams to a stop and my stomach drops to my feet. The heavy white silk has burned away and she has stepped from the flames in an astounding black replica, shining feathers covering her with bright white patches along the sleeves that can only be called wings as she raises her arms, dazzling and defiant in front of the entire nation, reborn as a mockingjay.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Caesar is staring in open-mouthed disbelief, as is most of the audience, and reaches out a slow hand to stroke the still smoking headpiece that has burned away to black. “Feathers,” he murmurs uncertainly. “You’re like a bird.” His eyes glow with excited awe.

“A mockingjay, I think,” Katniss answers, her voice holding a ring of steel. “It’s the bird on the pin I wear as a token.”

The smile on Caesar’s face freezes for a second and his eyes dart to Cinna and back again. “Well, hats off to your stylist.” His voice falters at first, but he regains his composure, ever the showman. “I don’t think anyone can argue that that’s not the most spectacular thing we’ve ever seen in an interview.” His teeth glitter in his wide smile. “Cinna, I think you better take a bow!” The audience bursts into wild cheers and Cinna bows graciously from his seat. I clench my teeth against the pain in my chest. He has surely sealed his fate, and done it knowingly, unwilling to let this travesty go unanswered. Even as I worry for what will happen to him, I gather strength for my own small act of rebellion as I pass Katniss moving back to her seat in triumph.

Caesar is clearly glad to anticipate an easy conversation next, he makes almost manic jokes about fires and feathers and I play along, chuckling about overcooked poultry. The audience is restless, though, after the spectacular display from Katniss and Caesar quickly moves along to a meaty topic.

“So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you’ve been through, you found out about the Quell?”

“I was in shock,” I answer honestly. “I mean, one minute I’m seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and the next…” my voice trails off. I don’t want to share such real pain with these people.

“You realized there was never going to be a wedding?” Caesar prompts gently, but clearly hoping for juicy, heart-wrenching details. I pause for a long moment, striving to hide my smirk and look distressed instead. He’s about to get much more than he bargained for.

“Caesar,” I lean forward conspiratorially. “Do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?”

“I feel quite certain of it,” Caesar answers, practically licking his lips in anticipation.

I wait, letting the crowd’s tension build a moment longer, then I look toward them. “We’re already married,” I say quietly.

The gasps and cries from the audience hush almost immediately as they lean forward, hungry for an explanation. “But…how can that be?” Caesar voices the question for all of them.

“Oh, it’s not an official marriage,” I explain, determinedly keeping my eyes from Katniss. “We didn’t go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District 12. I don’t know what it’s like in the other districts. But there’s this thing we do,” I say, quickly explaining the toasting ceremony that is how our district celebrates a marriage. My voice catches a tiny bit when I imagine Katniss and I kneeling before the hearth, but I make it through.

“Were your families there?” Caesar asks, fascinated.

“No, we didn’t tell anyone,” I answer firmly. I have to be careful who will be caught in my net. “Not even Haymitch. And Katniss’ mother would never have approved. But you see, we knew if we were married in the Capitol, there wouldn’t be a toasting. And neither of us really wanted to wait any longer. So, one day, we just did it. And to us, we’re more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us.” Again, my voice fails me, but it just seems like I’m emotional about our marriage. Caesar reaches to pat my hand gently.

“So this was before the Quell?” he asks.

“Of course before the Quell,” I reply, adding a twitchy shake of my head. “I’m sure we’d never have done it after we knew.” I raise my eyes imploringly to the audience. “But who could have seen it coming? No one.” I look straight into the camera, “We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere – I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that?” I plead into the lens.

“You couldn’t, Peeta,” Caesar soothes. “As you say, no one could’ve. But I have to confess,” he continues earnestly, looking to the crowd for consensus, “I’m glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together.” They respond with a wild burst of applause and cheering, but I shake my head and keep my eyes down.

“I’m not glad,” I grind out bitterly. “I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially.”

Caesar is surprised. “Surely even a brief time is better than no time?” he asks, baffled.

“Maybe I’d think that too, Caesar,” I reply, slowly lifting my eyes to meet his, making sure the camera over his shoulder has a clear shot. “If it weren’t for the baby.”

A shockwave of silence rolls over the crowd, heavy stillness in its wake. And as they begin to process it, to feel the implication, a palpable distress radiates throughout and then, finally, pandemonium. They shriek and cry, they wail and clutch. One gigantic, fat man in bright orange robes stands screaming and grasping at his bald head. A tiny, white-haired woman claws the back of the seat in front of her while snarling like a furious hound. Behind us, the giant screen suddenly fills with an enormous close up of Katniss, frozen and tight-lipped, despair shining in the clear depths of her beautiful, gray eyes.

Caesar has lost all control of the audience. They scream accusations of injustice, of barbarism, pleas to stop the Games. I stand and watch for just a moment more as my lie wreaks havoc throughout the Capitol. A cold pit opens in my stomach as I picture the televised reapings, Cecelia struggling out of the grip of her three clinging children. A sharp sting behind my eyes becomes a welling of tears, and I let them fall. I let them fall for each of the victors on this stage who have never had families for fear of watching their children’s names be pulled from the ball. For all the parents of the districts who have suffered through it. For Katniss, who has closed herself off from others so she never has to face it. And for myself, and the nightmares I constantly have of facing it myself.

I make my way to back to my place and the thrum of the anthem vibrates my chest, the victors all rising even though it’s inaudible over the wailing crowd. I stare out at them, shrieking their despair as if they could ever know this grief, and I silently reach for Katniss’ hand. I close mine around hers, solid and warm and real, anchoring us together. And then, all along the row, victors of the Games from every district reach for each other’s hands and clasp them until finally, we all stand joined in an unbroken line as the anthem fades from the air. The screens snap to blackness once the cameramen realize what they are seeing, but it’s too late. Everyone has witnessed the first display of unity among the districts since we rose against the Capitol.

In the dark confusion we stumble our way off the stage, trying to find our way through the chaotic mob and I keep a tight arm around Katniss, winding our way to the elevator bank. We zip upward and as soon as we step onto our floor I turn to Katniss and search her face. “There isn’t much time,” I say urgently. “So tell me, is there anything I have to apologize for?”

She shakes her head, her clear eyes glowing with resolve. “Nothing,” she assures me. We wait, and after what seems like hours the doors finally swish open and Haymitch steps out.

“It’s madness out there,” he reports breathlessly. “Everyone’s been sent home and they’ve canceled the recap of the interviews on television.”

We rush to the windows and peer down on the mayhem in the streets. “What are they saying?” I ask intently. “Are they asking the President to stop the Games?”

“I don’t think they know themselves what to ask,” he replies, his eyes holding mine. “The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the idea of opposing the Capitol’s agenda is a source of confusion for the people here.” He looks back and forth between Katniss and I and continues, “But there’s no way Snow would cancel the Games. You know that, right?”

We both nod. I did know it wouldn’t lead to cancelling the Games, but my hope was exactly what Haymitch just said is happening. For the citizens of the Capitol to begin to question the President. For the idea that maybe he isn’t irreproachable to be planted. A glow of hope radiates across my skin as I think I may not leave this life without having changed anything after all.

Haymitch tells us the others have been sent home and I take Katniss’ hand. “Then we’ll never see Effie again,” I say quietly. I’m sad I won’t be able to say good-bye to her in person, or to my devoted, dedicated prep team. “You’ll give her our thanks.”

Finally, there’s nothing left to say, no way to prolong it. “I guess this is where we say our good-byes as well,” Haymitch rumbles gruffly. His eyes reflect all the words he can’t force from his lips and I smile crookedly at him.

“Any last words of advice?” I ask softly.

He looks back and forth between us and then growls achingly, “Stay alive.” With a quick embrace for each of us, he backs away as though more contact will shatter him. “Go to bed,” he says, eyes on the floor. “You need your rest.”

“You take care, Haymitch,” I say softly. We turn and move toward our rooms but at the doorway Haymitch calls out to us.

“Katniss, when you’re in the arena…” but his voice fades to silence.

“What?” she asks stiffly.

“You just remember who the enemy is,” he finishes with an intense glare. “That’s all. Now go on. Get out of here.”

We turn back, looking at each other uncertainly as we head down the hall. I tell Katniss I’ll meet her after my shower, but she won’t let me out of her sight. We spend the night in a tense tangle, drifting restlessly between sleep and waking, holding each other as defense against the approaching dawn and the horror it brings with it.

When Cinna and Portia enter silently I feel a cold inevitability settle over me. They stand quietly in the doorway while I lift up onto an elbow and study Katniss’ face in the gray morning light. Our locked eyes don’t waver as I brush my lips across hers. “See you soon,” I promise.

“See you soon,” she replies.

And then I’m with Portia and we wait our turn for the roof and the hovercraft that will take me to the arena. Neither of us is good at making small-talk this morning. Once we’re onboard and the tracker has been injected under my skin, Portia presses me to eat, but I can only drink water. The silence is dense as we wait for landing and the antiseptic Launch Room where Portia and I examine my outfit for clues as to what’s coming.

“Warm,” she guesses, and I nod. Lacing up my boots, I sit beside her on the hard bench and take her hand.

“He’ll be ok,” I say, and her eyes fill with tears.

“No,” she whispers. “He won’t.”

I can’t deny it, and we sit together in quiet misery as we wait. After a long silence, she walks me to the plate and squeezes my hand. “He’s brave,” she says shakily, “but not as brave as you.” I blush fiercely and look away, shaking my head, but she puts a hand on my cheek, turning me to face her. “You are making a difference,” she says firmly, but her voice cautiously low. “You are showing people the Capitol doesn’t own who you are. That maybe it doesn’t have to own who they are either.” She stares intently into my eyes. “You are lighting a spark that will blaze through this nation like a wildfire. You are not doing this for nothing.” She squeezes my hands tightly, but I can’t fully draw breath. My mind fills with visions of the nation burning, chaos and war and death. Men, women and all the children who will be caught in the fire.  I shake my head again, my eyes wide with horror, but she smiles and steps back, tears on her cheeks, as the glass closes over me and the plate begins to rise. My stomach drops and I fight a panicked sickness as I stand, shuddering, to enter the arena of the 75th Hunger Games.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!” The familiar voice bounces weirdly, an odd echo behind it. I sweep my eyes over the landscape, trying to take in as much as I can in the minute I have to set a strategy. What I see makes my stomach sink and a cold fear grips my limbs.

The sky is a shimmery, candy floss pink and the blazing sun pounds down on my bare head while glaringly reflecting back to my eyes from the gently lapping waves surrounding me on every side. I spin cautiously on the platform, hoping desperately for a way out, but there’s nothing. Behind me a deep green tangle of broadleaf trees stretches back from the beach, and in front of me, on a rocky island, the golden metal of the Cornucopia gleams in the bright sun. Long, narrow strips of land stretch from the beach to the island, but I’m stranded on my plate, impossibly far from any solid ground.

Scanning around the circle as far as I can see, I can’t find Katniss anywhere. Gloss is on the pedestal next to me and grinning like a maniac. I can see Enobaria a few spokes over, crouched and ready. At the gong, she springs into the water, cutting toward the strip of land. The tributes from 1, 2 and 4 have an impossible advantage. The Career pack benefits from the rich districts where training pools are common, and of course tributes from 4 are on the water constantly. Where would the rest of us ever have learned to swim?

Grinding my teeth in frustration, I scan the arena again. There has to be a way out of this. The Gamemakers wouldn’t just let the obvious choices go grab weapons and come back to pick us off, would they? Maybe, but it wouldn’t make a very good show. Precious time is ticking away while I try to work it out, but my mind is slow, cluttered with a rising panic for Katniss. She is such a clear target, anyone grabbing a bow or spear from the clattering pile would single her out immediately. I can hear commotion on the far side of the island, causing me to have visions of her dodging flying blades from her precarious disk and it’s too much for me. Just as I’m about to fling myself into the water and hope for the best, I see her round the side of the Cornucopia, dripping wet, armed to the teeth and running next to Finnick Odair.

I feel my mouth drop open, trying to decipher which of these things is most surprising. Katniss is stripping out of the knives that encase her, readying herself to dive into the water to come out to me. My head shakes in an automatic warning, but obviously she must know how to swim. How would she have learned to swim? Finnick reaches for her and my muscles tense, but he only puts a hand on her shoulder, stilling her before dropping all his own weapons. They talk a second and I strain frantically to piece together what is going on, then Finnick pats her lightly on the abdomen before turning and diving gracefully into the water. I watch him slip through the lapping waves toward me, Katniss staying behind with her bow trained toward the Careers arming themselves at the Cornucopia.

Trying to make sense of this completely unexpected behavior, several scenarios chase each other through my mind. Is Katniss playing along, hoping I’ll be able to overpower Finnick when he reaches me? Is Finnick coming to rescue or to battle? Is she working with him? How would that have happened? When could that have happened? As I watch him glide effortlessly closer, the sun catches and sets to shining a brightness on his wrist. I stare, each time his arm lifts I strain to see clearly until I’m certain. He is wearing the same golden flame bangle Haymitch was wearing the last time we talked.

Jolting back to the previous Games, I remember how Haymitch communicated with Katniss without ever saying a word. By sending her signals and clues in the arena, he was able to tell her what he wanted her to do to stay alive. This is an unmistakable message from Haymitch, and there is no way I’m arguing against his strategy.

Blowing and shaking his shining bronze head, Finnick arrives at the base of the pedestal and smiles cynically up at me.

“Hey there, baker man. Little damp for you down here?” His bright green eyes are wary, like he’s approaching a cornered animal, and he raises his wrist to be sure I see the bracelet. “Can I be of assistance?” he asks.

Without a question, I step off the platform. A tight fear shivers over me as the emptiness beneath my feet doesn’t support me and I feel myself begin to slide under the warm, heavy water. Why do people like this? It feels chaotic, but I force myself not to thrash and Finnick grips me tightly across the chest and under an arm. He begins a strong, steady kick and pull and we move quickly toward the shore.

“A tip,” he says, as he drags us in. “Maybe don’t be so quick to trust everyone you meet,” he suggests with a casual smile.

“Haymitch trusts you,” I answer, trying to ignore the feeling of nothingness all around me. “I trust Haymitch. I hope they didn’t get that on camera.”

Finnick laughs and splutters a bit, then he looses me from his grip and I kick desperately, until I realize we’re at the rocky strip and Katniss reaches a strong hand down to help me out of the salty emptiness of the water.

“Hello, again,” I grin. My delight at seeing her not just safe but armed fizzes through my belly and I pull her to me for a quick kiss. “We’ve got allies,” I point out questioningly.

“Yes. Just as Haymitch intended,” she answers with a wryly grumpy look at the sky.

“Remind me,” I ask, my eyes on Finnick. “Did we make deals with anyone else?”

Katniss nods toward the splashing sound behind me and I turn to see Mags, she’s crossed over the strip that separated us and is almost to the land. “Only Mags, I think,” she says.

“Well, I can’t leave Mags behind,” Finnick replies, moving closer to the edge. “She’s one of the few people who actually like me,” and he smiles dazzlingly over his shoulder at Katniss. I watch as he positions himself to help the feeble, delicate woman from the water.

_It’s all an act_ , I think in surprise. Who is this man we’re supposed to trust with our lives? Katniss is agreeing that she wants Mags with us and I add, “Katniss wanted her from the first day,” watching to see his reaction.

He darts a look back at her, and I’m sure he’s reassessing an opinion, too. “Katniss has remarkably good judgement,” he quips, reaching down and lifting Mags clear. Dripping, she pats his arm and smiles before gesturing to her belt, but I’m unable to untangle what she says.

“Look, she’s right,” Finnick exclaims bafflingly. He points a few spokes over to Beetee, struggling, but afloat. “Someone figured it out.”

Katniss and I stare, uncomprehending. “The belts,” he explains, while Mags smiles and nods happily, patting her middle. “They’re flotation devices. I mean, you have to propel yourself, but they’ll keep you from drowning.” I watch Beetee, floundering toward a land strip, wondering where he found the courage to leap into the water and trust it would be alright. He’s a lot smarter than I am, I wonder if he had more confidence there had to be a way to prolong the Game for non-swimmers.

Katniss urges us to hurry, handing over a bow, a sheath of arrows, and a long, wide-bladed knife. Mags also gets an awl and I smile to myself at Katniss’ soft spot. To my surprise, Finnick hoists Mags onto his back and we run for the beach.

The forest here is nothing like our woods at home. The smooth-barked trees rise to tower overhead, hardly any branches, and wide, deep green leaves creating a canopy that protects us from the beating sun and dimming the daylight. A story we read in school comes back to me, this must be a jungle. The wild beauty of it is captivating, but it’s hell on my prosthetic leg. The ground is spongy with a weird give to it that keeps tipping me off balance and the crazily untamed vines are everywhere, grabbing and wrapping around my feet every few steps. I struggle to find my stride, moving ahead of Finnick, my knife slicing through the thickest tangles of vine. Katniss is last, her arrows much more effective than his trident in these close quarters.

Plowing forward, my knee aching over the false joint from constantly wobbling on it, the heat is overpowering. The air itself feels wet and drawing breath is work, but the idea of what could be coming behind us drives me on. Finnick keeps a steady pace, despite the steep incline and extra burden he carries, but after about a mile I hear Mags try to muffle a small groan. Finnick immediately requests we stop and rest, claiming he’s exhausted. He lowers Mags gently to the ground and snaps off a large leaf to fan with her with. Katniss uses the time to shimmy up one of the smooth trunks, disappearing into the leafy ceiling.

Mags is gripping her thigh and I sit beside her. Gently, I move her hands aside and work at the muscle with the relaxing technique the therapist showed me in the Capitol hospital after my surgery. She sighs blissfully and rests her head against my shoulder. I look up at Finnick and find him watching me thoughtfully. I smile and shrug, but he just lifts his gaze to the tree where Katniss is scouting for us. Looking back at me, he cocks his head to the side.

“You two got married, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “In our eyes, anyway.” Mags smiles and pats my cheek, burbling something that sounds like it might have been congratulations. “Thank you,” I risk, and to my relief she nods.

Finnick is about to say more, but Katniss is coming back, sliding down the trunk as if she’s been doing this all her life. He stands, waiting, a trident held loosely in his hands.

“What’s going on down there, Katniss?” he asks warily. “Have they all joined hands? Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed the weapons in the sea in defiance of the Capitol?” His voice holds a note of warning. As though he’s a step ahead of the conversation in his head.

“No,” she replies. She’s holding her bow, but it’s not loaded. Her back is tense and she watches his every move with outright suspicion.

“No,” he repeats, holding her eyes and I notice he’s tightened his grip on the trident. “Because whatever happened in the past is the past.” Mags puts a hand on my arm, her face scrunched with worry. “And no one in this arena was a victor by chance,” he continues. But then, he turns and looks at me, Mags gripping my arm, my hand covering hers. “Except maybe Peeta,” he finishes, his voice holding his doubt. He is weighing his options, considering his next move. He returns his gaze to Katniss, her hand has moved fractionally closer to her arrows and she is holding her breath. I make my choice.

“So how many are dead?” I ask, standing briskly and planting myself directly between them. I’m glad I’m blocking her obvious glare of frustration from Finnick, but I’m sure he knows.

“Hard to say,” she says, not loosening her stance. “At least six, I think. And they’re still fighting.”

“Let’s keep moving,” I say firmly, holding her gaze with mine steadily. “We need water.”

“Better find some soon,” Finnick agrees from behind me. “We need to be undercover when the others come hunting us tonight.”

I see his words affect Katniss, tying us together, reminding her of the threat, suggesting safety in numbers. Haymitch chose wisely, I think. She relaxes her stance, and drops her gaze, turning to move into the trees. I face Finnick and he grins at me, eyebrows raised and eyes twinkling, wiping an exaggerated hand of relief over his brow. To my despair, I really like him. This is not going to end well.

We’ve travelled about another mile and I’m lightheaded with the heat, my leg dragging through the tangled vines and thirst ravaging my throat. Hacking at the overgrown greenery I see the top of the hill we’re scaling. I’m so tired and thirsty, the air itself seems to waver in front of my eyes. I swing the knife at the curtain of vines ahead of me and the world explodes.

A crack like a hammer on an anvil and flame shoots up my arm, enveloping my entire being in white heat. I fly backward, hurtling into bodies behind me, then straight up, spiraling into the air, but I can still see myself on the ground. Katniss screams and flings herself over my body while blackness closes in around me, pulling, dragging, forcing me away from her. I fight, bucking and screaming, thrashing against the solid black, clawing my way back to her, shrieking her name. And then the darkness has me.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Fire. My throat, my lungs, my limbs. Everything burns. My ears are ringing and my head feels shattered into a million pieces. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t see.

Katniss.

“Peeta?” Her voice is inches from my face. I have to warn her. Forcing air to rake its way into my lungs, I drag my eyelids open. Her deep, gray eyes hover over me, lashes glittering with tears.

“Careful,” I gasp. I can’t hear my own words over the ringing in my ears. “There’s a force field up ahead.”

She gives a watery laugh, clutching my hand and brushing my hair back, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The jungle is tilting and swaying behind her, but slowly it steadies itself and I start to make sense of what happened. I must have hit it with the knife and been electrocuted. I think I blacked out, I can’t remember anything and I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.

“Must be a lot stronger than the one on the Training Center roof,” I tell them. Mags and Finnick are watching me with worried faces. “I’m all right, though,” I reassure them, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. My ears won’t stop ringing and I don’t feel like I’m breathing right. “Just a little shaken,” I modify.

“You were dead!” Katniss cries. “Your heart stopped!” She presses a hand to her mouth, but she starts making terrible, choked sobbing sounds and tears are streaming down her face. This news gives me a chill and I vaguely remember a clutching darkness. I cringe away from it and the memory fades. I want to sit up, to take her in my arms and comfort her, but the most I can manage is to barely squeeze her hand.

“Well, it seems to be working now,” I say lightly, if shakily. “It’s all right, Katniss.” She nods, but the sobs continue, her face scrunched up and shoulders heaving. “Katniss?” I struggle to sit up, but I can’t quite do it. I have to show her I’m okay. I take a deep breath, the ragged pain shrieking through my lungs, but I try to clear my mind and focus on regaining control of my body.

“It’s okay,” Finnick says breathlessly. He’s kneeling next to me, looking like he’s just run ten miles in full winter gear. “It’s just her hormones. From the baby.”

“No. It’s not-” Katniss tries to protest, but she just starts crying harder. Finnick is watching her with an odd expression. He looks from her uncontrollable sobbing to her hand clutching mine and then to my eyes. He has the same look Jasper gets when working out a puzzle, when the answer is one he never expected. Then he shakes his head and his usual smug mask returns.

“How are you?” he asks me. “Do you think you can move on?”

“No,” Katniss insists, crouching protectively over me. “He has to rest.”

She wipes the back of her hand across her face but Mags hands her a wad of moss and she blows her nose mightily. There’s no way we can stay, even though I want nothing more than to close my eyes and not move for about seven days. I’m about to tell them I’m fine when Katniss’ gaze sharpens and she reaches for the locket resting on my chest, exposed since my jumpsuit is somehow unzipped.

“Is this your token?” she asks, and I’m caught by the tenderness in her voice as she rubs gently at the engraving I asked Effie to order.

“Yes,” I admit, hoping the hinges escape her notice. I’m not ready for that yet. “Do you mind that I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match.”

“No, of course I don’t mind,” she assures me, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. My heart bangs achingly against my ribcage as the realization sweeps over me. She has no intention of leaving the arena. I grit my teeth and steel myself for what’s to come. Not this time, Katniss Everdeen. You aren’t getting your way in this.

“So you want to make camp here, then?” Finnick asks doubtfully.

“I don’t think that’s an option,” I say. “Staying here. With no water. No protection. I feel all right, really. If we could just go slowly.”

“Slowly would be better than not at all,” Finnick grunts as he hauls me to my feet. I cling to him while the jungle rolls and pitches around me.

“I’ll take the lead,” Katniss announces, and I immediately try to protest. Just the idea of her running against the force field shakes me with dread, but my voice hitches and strains as I fight the dizziness and Finnick easily overrides me.

“No, let her do it.” He looks at her sharply. “You knew that force field was there, didn’t you? Right at the last second? You started to give a warning. How did you know?”

My head is starting to clear a little, though I still wish I could just lie down. I’m able to let go of Finnick and stand on my own and I watch Katniss curiously as she hesitates just for a moment.

“I don’t know. It’s almost as if I could hear it. Listen.” We’re all silent, straining our ears. Mine still ring softly but I distinctly hear birds, chittering insects, rustling leaves. Nothing else. The others are clearly deaf to it as well.

“I don’t hear anything,” I say doubtfully.

“Yes,” she insists. “It’s like when the fence around District 12 is on, only much, much quieter.” We all try again, but Finnick meets my eyes and we both frown and shake our heads. “There!” she cries. “Can’t you hear it? It’s coming from right where Peeta got shocked.”

Finnick shrugs. “I don’t hear it, either. But if you do, by all means, take the lead.”

“That’s weird,” she says, and I watch her intently. She is hands down the worst liar in the world. She far over-explains when she’s not being truthful, but she must have a reason for what she’s saying, and I’m not going to be the one to expose it. She’s turning her head from side to side, an exaggerated wonderment on her face. “I can only hear it out of my left ear,” she says.

“The one the doctors reconstructed?” I offer helpfully.

“Yeah,” she says, looking relieved before going on to describe the impossible things she’s been able to hear since her surgery. This topic is best left before it’s too closely examined, so I’m relieved when Mags pushes her gently into motion. Finnick quickly strips a branch to work as a cane for Mags, and I’m too grateful to protest when he offers me one as well.

We walk along, slower than I’d like, but faster than I think I can maintain. I concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other. My prosthetic leg keeps getting tangled and I’m clumsy about maneuvering it, my head still cloudy. Katniss is tossing small, hard nuts to her left occasionally and they crackle and snap when they bounce off the force field. The sound is unsettling. Mags is delighted though, and grabs up a few, tossing them into her mouth. I look questioningly back to Finnick, but he just grins and shrugs. “Mags!” Katniss cries, noticing it too. “Spit that out! It could be poisonous!” Mags gums a smile around a full mouth and Finnick laughs.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he says nonchalantly. He is clearly goading Katniss, and enjoying it. He’s obviously devoted to the frail, elderly woman and would never let her run such a risk. Is he playing to the audience? Or just teasing Katniss because, I have to admit, it’s fun to see her take it so seriously.

It seems like we’ve been walking for days, Mags’ form is wavering before me and I am upright by pure will when Katniss finally calls for a rest. She wants to check our position again and quickly scales a tall tree, but I just sink to the ground, my head drooping between my pulled up knees and my breathing coming in heaving gasps. Finnick and Mags are talking in hushed voices, but I can make out their conversation. He’s worried about her, about our lack of water and is asking her to ride on his back again. My pondering over this self-proclaimed scoundrel’s tenderness toward a woman who can only be a liability in the arena is interrupted by a sparking snap and I lift my head to see an arrow flutter to the ground, some distance away. Katniss shimmies back down the tree, her face grim.

“The force field has us trapped in a circle. A dome, really. I don’t know how high it goes. There’s the Cornucopia, the sea, and then the jungle all around,” she reports. “Very exact, very symmetrical. And not very large.”

“Did you see any water?” Finnick asks, echoing all of our thoughts.

She shakes her head. “Only the saltwater where we started the Games,” she answers. It makes no sense. Just like the swimming, there must be a hidden answer. The Gamemakers would face calamitous outrage from the Capitol if they piled all the darling victors of the past into a ring just to watch us slowly dehydrate and collapse.

“There must be some other source,” I insist. “Or we’ll all be dead in a matter of days.”

“Well, the foliage is thick. Maybe there are ponds or springs somewhere,” she admits, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it. “At any rate, there’s no point in trying to find out what’s over the edge of this hill, because the answer is nothing.”

I’m unable to let it go, though. “There must be drinkable water between the force field and the wheel.” Which, of course, means toward the Careers. We decide to work our way back down, spiraling around to search for any sign we may have missed of a water source. As the day drags on, it becomes clear I’m not quite as all right as I tried to pretend. My vision wavers constantly and my head is pounding, a roaring in my ears keeping me from hearing any warnings of approaching enemies. My leg feels like an inert lump and I stumble more and more often.

Eventually, Finnick calls a halt, saying we should camp with the force field to our backs for protection. He and Mags begin weaving mats from the tall grasses and, after a moment catching my breath, I gather some of the nuts and begin frying them against the force field, piling the peeled meats on a clean leaf.

Katniss stands guard as long as she can, fidgety and irritable in the heat. The thirst is driving us all insane and she finally cracks. “Finnick, why don’t you stand guard and I’ll hunt around some more for water,” she suggests. “Don’t worry, I won’t go far,” she adds, her eyes on me.

“I’ll go to,” I respond immediately, not happy with the idea of her out there alone, but she shakes her head firmly.

“No,” she answers, “I’m going to do some hunting if I can.” We both know there’s no way she would get within a mile of any game if I’m with her, and I reluctantly return to the pile of nuts while she loads her bow and moves silently into the trees, promising to return quickly.

Finnick and Mags are quick and industrious, working with rapid, sure movements to tightly weave the grasses into large mats and even a few bowls. Once I’ve peeled a large pile of nuts, Mags nudges the bowls toward me, and I even think I understand her to say, “In here.” I heap them full of the roasted meats and she smiles happily.

Finnick pauses in his work to sit by me and tips my head back to peer into my eyes. “Your pupils don’t look right,” he offers worriedly. “How does your head feel?”

“Fine,” I lie, and he quirks his lips doubtfully. “Was I really- did my heart really stop?” I ask, and he nods at me, eyebrows raised. “How did it start again?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I learned it back home,” he says. “My father taught first-aid and drowning victims are always around for practice.” I hold his eyes, trying to read his face for the answer to my real question. Why would he save my life? As if reading my mind, he shrugs again and turns his gaze to his hands with exaggerated attention to his task. “This place is dangerous, especially if I’m going to keep Mags alive. I need help. And Katniss would be useless if something happened to you.” He looks back at me and winks rakishly. “Pure self-preservation,” he says, with a crooked grin.

But I’m not convinced. I’m starting to notice he’s at his most slippery charming when trying to deflect something.  For now, though, I’m too exhausted to work it out. For whatever reason, I owe him my life. This complicates things even more. My head aches with the problem and I tip it back against the tree trunk I’m leaning against.

I jerk forward at the boom of the cannon. Finnick and I stare at each other as the shots echo through the suddenly quiet jungle. Eight. I try to close out the clamor of faces of people it might be. People I met at the Training Center. Ate with, trained with, joked with. Finnick lifts an eyebrow and smirks cynically, but his eyes are pained.

Tipping back against the tree trunk, I only close my eyes for a second.

When I open them again, I gasp out loud. Finnick and Mags have created a small lean-to out of the mats. It shelters the small, old woman as she wraps a final tight knot in place and turns to smile proudly at me. “Wow,” I grin, truly amazed. “That’s incredible!” She blushes prettily and scoots over to pat my cheek, peering into my eyes.

“Better,” she assures me, and she’s right. I still feel muddled, but the short rest did a lot to restore me. I stretch, groaning, and the stiffness eases from my aching muscles. The thirst hasn’t eased, though, and I watch Mags worriedly. It must be terrible for her and I again try to puzzle it out. I scan the jungle intently, looking for hints or clues but Finnick waves a hand dismissively.

“It’s not out there. There’s something we’re missing.”

“So let’s not miss it,” I reply, running my hand along a broad, rubbery leaf. I peer at the rosy pink sky. Will it rain soon? Something is keeping this verdant jungle green.

“You’re the steady, problem solver, right?” Finnick asks with a hint of condescension. “And she’s the ‘Girl on Fire.’ All action, not a lot of thought.”

I bristle and turn to him coldly. “She might surprise you,” I answer, my voice low and clipped. “Twenty-two people underestimated her last year.”

He raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Not a bit,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. Just thinking how to best use our resources. She’s the go-getter, you’re the planner, and I’m the decoration.” He smiles lazily and turns his profile to me, tipping his chin arrogantly. I snort and Mags slaps him lightly on the shoulder, asking her part. Patting her hand, he grins mischievously at me. “You, dear one, keep them from wanting to kill me.”

“One of us is falling down on the job,” I grunt, and Finnick laughs delightedly, Mags grinning with him, but we all jump and spin toward the tiny snap of a twig right behind us. Katniss is back. My racing heart slows. How does she move so soundlessly?

“No,” she answers the silent question. “No water. It’s out there though. He knew where it was,” she says, lifting the disgusting lump she’s holding by the tail. “He’d been drinking recently when I shot him out of a tree, but I couldn’t find his source.” She shakes her head in frustration. “I swear, I covered every inch of ground in a thirty-yard radius.”

I poke my knife at the odd looking rodent-like creature. “Can we eat him?” I ask doubtfully.

Katniss thinks it’s similar to squirrel, but that it should be cooked. I don’t want to risk a fire out here. I quickly carve a chunk off and work it onto the end of a sharpened stick Finnick was using to make holes in leaves for threading. I drop it onto the force field and with a sputtering crackle it bounces back almost immediately. The outside is charred black, but the inside is nicely cooked. The others burst into applause, but then stop, looking around guiltily. I examine the roasted meat closely, and shudder involuntarily. Finnick grins and licks his lips suggestively.

Our first meal in the arena isn’t all that bad. The nuts are tasty and the meat surprisingly juicy. I try my best not to long for water, focusing on the nutritious food instead. Finnick questions Katniss closely about the rodent, trying desperately to work out the secret of the water. As we talk, a shining white moon slips above the treeline and silences our conversation.

Moving to the front of the shelter, we turn our faces to the night sky. Katniss is trembling slightly and I take her hand in mine as we wait. Finnick puts an arm around Mags and the seal of the Capitol brightens the sky. I feel sick, the memory of the ceremony stirring to the front of my mind from the dark recesses where I’d crammed it for the last year. This dark vigil for the dead, lives lost for sport and the repellent relief that it wasn’t me this time.

Last year, all I knew about each face was that they wanted me dead. This time, I know them all. I know the man from 6 collected pet frogs because he loved the pure, clean green of their skin. I know Woof spent his winters making sure the children of his district had enough warm clothes. I know Cecelia’s three children will cry themselves to sleep tonight.

Mags wipes silent tears away, and Finnick’s face is tight in the cold moonlight. The heavy sorrow blankets us all, no one moves. Drifting gently from the dark above us, a silver parachute tips softly into the vines at our feet.

“Whose is it, do you think?” Katniss asks dully.

“No telling,” Finnick’s voice is flat. Then he pulls himself straight and I can see him remind himself of the eyes watching him. “Why don’t we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?” he suggests with a quirk of his lips. I pull the cord and spread wide the silky circle to reveal a tiny, metal object I’ve never seen before. None of us can place it, we hand it around, each of us trying to puzzle it out.

No one can make heads or tails of it and finally Katniss spears it into the dirt and grumbles, “I give up. Maybe if we hook up with Beetee or Wiress they can figure it out,” before flopping down on the mat and staring at it balefully. I rub her back soothingly, smiling to Finnick who meets my eyes, his own sending a clear message of _I told you so_.

I rub gently at her shoulders, feeling the tension begin to drain out of her, my eyes on the shining metal. Haymitch doesn’t choose his gifts lightly, what is he trying to tell us with this? As I try to work it out, my head begins to nod. The rigorous day has taken its toll and my eyes feel gritty with exhaustion. I can barely keep them open and I’m biting the inside of my lip to stay awake.

“A spile!” Katniss cries, springing up and startling a yelp from me. She grabs the metal from the dirt and examines it closely. “It’s a spile,” she repeats excitedly. “Sort of like a faucet. You put it in a tree and sap comes out. Well, the right kind of tree,” she adds, looking around at the tall, smooth trunks.

“Sap?” Finnick echoes blankly.

“To make syrup,” I explain, beginning to see. The rodent’s sharp front teeth flash in my mind and relief washes over me. “But there must be something else inside these trees.”

We beam wide smiles at each other and Finnick grabs a rock to pound it into a trunk, but Katniss stops him, worried it will be damaged. Mags offers her awl and I jam it deep into the tree, Finnick and I taking turns to drill a hole that will fit the spile. Katniss plugs it into the hole and we all step back, watching breathlessly until finally, slowly, a heavy drop of water rolls lazily down the lip and into Mags’ palm. Joyously, we crowd around it, wiggling and adjusting until a steady drizzle runs out into our parched and eager mouths. Mags fills a woven basket and we take turns gulping, slurping and smacking our lips happily. It’s warm, but wet is good enough and we splash our faces, our heads, our hands.

When everyone has slaked their thirst, we stumble blearily back into the shelter, exhaustion overtaking me. We’re all tired, Mags is barely staying upright. My vision wavers and I want badly to lie down. The released tension of finding water has left me wobbly and I don’t argue at all when Finnick volunteers to take first watch. Katniss lies down next to me and I drape my arm over her. She tells Finnick to wake her when he’s tired, but I don’t even hear her finish the sentence before sleep pulls me under. Deep and dreamless, I drift from awareness.

I’m torn from the velvet darkness by Katniss’ screams of pain.


	20. Chapter Twenty

“Run!” Katniss screams, her voice screechy and her eyes huge. “Run!” I feel Finnick leap up and away from us, off through the jungle with Mags slung over his back. I fight my way to my feet, but my brain buzzes and jitters and I can’t focus, can’t seem to make a decision about what I need to do, or even what I need to decide about. I feel panic rising in my chest, something is very wrong with me. I can feel biting, stabbing, burning pain all over my body but I can’t react to it properly.

“What is it?” I slur, then, without even meaning to, I repeat “What is it?” I wobble on my feet, trying to shake my head clear. Katniss is frantic, clawing at me and trying to drag me along with her. I force myself into motion, following her lead but my head is wrapped in cotton and I can’t make sense of what is happening. I try and swipe away whatever is biting at me. Insects? Tracker jackers?

“Some kind of fog,” Katniss cries breathlessly, pulling me mercilessly as I stumble and flail behind her. “Poisonous gas. Hurry, Peeta!”

My leg is wooden, I can’t control it and I stumble constantly. Then I realize it’s the wrong leg, I’m having trouble manipulating my own limb. As this thought struggles through the haze of my focus, I hit the ground again and my head is swathed in the eddying poison, my face feeling like a million tiny, biting insects are boring into my skin. My leg kicks on its own, pushing me sideways until I can get my hands under me and heave myself up. Katniss won’t just run, doggedly staying with me and hauling me along. I try to tell her to go, just get out, but I can’t make my mouth form the words. I want to scream my frustration, but even that is beyond me. Gathering my will, I shove myself onto my feet, concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other, trying to move forward.

Finnick is calling encouragement, trying to guide us with his voice and I follow it, but my leg is jumping on its own, and my arms, trembling at first, have begun to shoot out at spastic angles. The gas is not only painful, it doesn’t only burn, it’s attacking our nerves and causing us to lose control of our bodies. I’ve fallen so much, spent so much time in the eddies and pools on the ground, I can barely function anymore. I can hardly feel my limbs, and if I didn’t suddenly jolt forward, I wouldn’t even have realized Finnick has come back and is dragging me on.

I stare hard at the ground, trying to aim for my legs to lift and place my feet, but my knees keep buckling and I’m walking like a puppet of a drunken duck. My legs aren’t the only thing that won’t obey me. I struggle desperately to tell them to leave me, to flee the poison, but everything comes out in a jibbery groan.

“It’s no good,” Finnick grunts. “I’ll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?” I shake my head frantically, but it goes unnoticed as Mags transfers to Katniss’ shoulders and Finnick heaves me onto his broad back. We move forward, sliding down and away from the terrible wall of curling vapor and Finnick occasionally swings an arm backward to swipe at me. I realize his arms are affected too and two of his tridents clatter to the ground as he loses his grip. He passes me the last one, shoving it between my body and his to secure it and keeps pressing on.

A crashing behind us and Finnick turns back. I can only see from one eye, but Katniss in on the ground, struggling to right herself and haul Mags back on. She’s flopping around and her legs seem unresponsive. Finnick squats beside her, jerking and twitching and she shakes her head. “It’s no use,” she pants. “Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” I struggle with a frantic denial but Finnick makes no move to leave her.

“No,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I can’t carry them both. My arms aren’t working.” He shudders, as though a massive sob had wracked him and he whispers, “I’m sorry, Mags. I can’t do it.” As he shakes and jitters, Mags stands and takes his face in her hands. She smiles softly and presses a kiss to his lips, then, limping but purposeful, turns and walks into the silent, ominous wall of poison. I try to cry out, to warn her, but she slips into its grip and immediately writhes wildly and falls to the ground, flailing horribly. As Finnick turns away the cannon echoes through the night, defining the moment like nothing else can for me.

“Finnick?” Katniss chokes behind us, but he doesn’t turn, continues away from the fog even though his legs kick sporadically and his arms jerk uselessly around. He moves silently and doggedly on until, with a violent shudder, he pitches forward onto his face and doesn’t get up. He convulses beneath me but I can’t move off him and Katniss stumbles on top of us both. A wheezing groan from his ravaged throat and she drags herself to the side. My arm flops around, trying to find her hand, but it’s no use. We lie separate but near enough to touch, waiting for death to claim us.

Twitching and grunting, I watch the night sky with my one good eye. The velvet darkness is beautiful, lit silver by the sailing moon. I’m glad I got to see it.

Katniss croaks a choking sound and her leg shoots out wildly. She grunts and scowls. “It’s stopped,” she scrapes out. Finnick and I both fight our heads around to look past her. It’s true. The billowing curtain has piled up on itself, as if reaching an invisible boundary, and is climbing upward into the sky. In moments it’s gone, as if it had never been.

My teeth chatter together and I heave myself over, off of Finnick. He rolls onto his back and lies there, jolting and gasping, eyes tight shut. My body keeps convulsing and my mind spins and tips, unable to gain any traction. As I stare into the tree branches, a movement catches my eye. Dark and silent, a shadow slips along a branch overhead and is still, watchful. Another slides into sight to join it. My struggling mind skitters across a memory. A history lesson about previous Games. My arm jerks and twists toward the pair and I slur, “Mon-hees.”

They make no move toward us, we contemplate each other silently until the gentle slapping of waves on the sand penetrates my clouded mind. I roll painfully to my knees, I can’t make it to my feet, and crawl toward the sound. The others follow and we struggle through the tangle of vines until they give way to sandy beach and salty water. I collapse on the edge, stretching my hand to its soft warmth and immediately choke back a scream, jerking back. My hand feels on fire, the briny water sending shocks of pain rocketing up my arm. But there is something else too, a leaching sting and a lessening of the fire.

Clenching my teeth, I lower my hand back into the water and fight to hold it there. Blinding at first, but then the water swirls and clouds with chalky vapor drifting from the swellings on my skin. As the substance dissipates, it takes the pain with it. With a deep sigh of relief, I turn to share my find with Katniss, but she has found it as well, working inch by inch into the warm water, gasping first with pain, and then with pleasure. I turn to Finnick, but he is face down on the sand, head turned from us and completely motionless.

I submerge myself as quickly as I can, as quickly as the intense pain will allow. My head is the worst of it, pulling in the stinging salt water into my throat and nose, letting it burn and sear and blowing it out, flushing the toxin with it. My ears ring with the agony of it, but once it’s done I can feel my head beginning to clear a little. Tremors still shake my limbs, but I can follow a train of thought. Ironically, my prosthetic, unaffected by the fog, is my steady leg and I’m able to support myself more easily than Katniss, still having trouble guiding her legs.

She dumps handfuls of seawater over Finnick’s clenched fists, pulling back cautiously from the wisping fog that writhes up. I pull my knife from my belt and cut away the rags that remain of Finnick’s jumpsuit. With two large shells, we carefully pour water over his arms, twitching feebly still. He doesn’t respond, except for an occasional moan torn from his raw throat. Katniss scans our surroundings uneasily. We’re too exposed, and between the splashing and groaning we may as well send up a signal flare. “We’ve got to get more of him in the water,” she hisses. I nod my agreement and we grab his feet, hauling him down to the water’s edge.

Slowly, inch by inch, we gradually submerge him. He groans but doesn’t fight us. The more I’m in the water, the better I feel. Sensation is returning to the side of my face where before I’d been numb, and my thinking seems less labored. Finnick too, is returning to awareness. His head in Katniss’ lap, the rest of his body is submerged and we just let him soak until finally he opens his eyes and I can see he is focusing on us. Katniss and I grin at each other in relief when he lifts his arms out of the water, strong and steady again.

“There’s just your head left, Finnick,” I tell him softly. “That’s the worst part, but you’ll feel much better after, if you can bear it.” He nods faintly, and we help him to a sitting position. Clutching both our hands, he plunges his face into the salty warmth, shuddering and tense, but in control. When he sits back, teeth clenched and breathing raggedly, I rub gently at his shoulder and Katniss pats his hand.

“I’m going to tap a tree,” she tells me, eyes on the jungle.

“Let me make a hole first,” I suggest. “You stay with him. You’re the healer.” I smile as she rolls her eyes and I stand, reaching for my knife.

I walk into the treeline, searching for a promising looking trunk. Running my hands over several, I finally find one I like and I turn, making sure I can still see Katniss. She and Finnick are floating in the water, he seems to be reviving. Lifting my knife, I chink it into the smooth bark. My arms are steady, but still weak and the blade bounces off, not making much progress. Frowning, I move to the side a little, hoping to block my feeble attempt from being captured by the cameras for Jasper to see. Thinking of Jasper reminds me of home and my thoughts wander as I work at the tree trunk.

My jumpsuit has practically dissolved off of me and I remember joking with Eirik before the first Games about trying to find opportunities to be shirtless. Is he watching now, laughing at my bare back? Or is he horrified by what he is watching me go through? My hand shakes a little thinking of everyone at home, watching us almost killed by a cloud of noxious fumes. I was almost the reason Katniss died, instead of the one helping her to survive. And I almost cost Finnick his life, too. I whack harder at the trunk and the blade is making progress now, the sound ringing through the still night. Why did Finnick stay with us? Why didn’t he take Mags and run? He’d said before he needed our help to keep her alive, but tonight she had walked straight into the fog so he wouldn’t have to choose. And before she’d gone, he’d said, “I’m sorry Mags.”

I try to puzzle it out, it makes absolutely no sense and my mind is still too slow to make any headway into the problem. Finnick is a conundrum. So much different than the Capitol darling persona he projects. My thoughts still on home, I turn to the sky and ask in a low voice, “What do you think guys? Do I trust him?” Carney would say absolutely yes. He always thinks the best of everyone. Eirik would be more cautious. Be wary would be his advice.

I remember once in school, so long ago now when Katniss was unimaginably out of reach but I dreamed of changing that one day, when Carney was trying to get me to talk to her. He swore up and down I wouldn’t regret it, that at the very least I’d have tried. Eirik wanted me to make a plan, have a reason to start a conversation rather than just walk up and expect it to go well. They had argued with each other, both making such increasingly ridiculous arguments that we were soon laughing like maniacs and sweet Malin Cristy had come to see what all the noise was about. Carney and Malin had been a couple for months after that, Carney claiming it as proof that he was right all along.

My knife makes a softer thunk and my attention snaps back to my work. It’s almost done. “Peeta,” Katniss calls softly. “I need your help with something.”

“Okay, just a minute,” I call back, working the tip of the knife back and forth. “I think I’ve just about got it.” A small trickle of clear water seeps down the trunk from the hole I’ve made and I step back with a satisfied smile. “Yes, there,” I call back. “Have you got the spile?”

“I do,” she says, in a calm, meditative voice that sounds almost like she’s trying to soothe a child. “But we’ve found something you’d better take a look at.” My head snaps up and I tense to run to her, but I pause when her voice continues in that odd sing-song pattern. “Only move toward us quietly, so you don’t startle it.”

“Okay,” I reply, as casually as I can manage, and I start back toward them at the water. Her tone is so odd, I try to move as quickly, but as quietly as I can. Unfortunately, moving quietly through the underbrush has never been my strong suit, but the pair of them stay still on the beach, not seeming to react to anything. My eyes are trained on Finnick and Katniss, trying to make out what they are seeing and trying not to sound like a pack of wild dogs as I move toward them, but I can’t tell what it is that they are concerned about.

Then, the stillness suddenly feels heavy. Like a thousand eyes are focused on me in the dark. My gaze darts up to the trees and I see them. Like a dense flock of carrion birds, the branches sag under the weight of the monkeys lining every limb. With a shriek like a tearing of metal, the jungle explodes in a chaos of screaming, flailing teeth and claws.

My blade arcs up and I slash the first one to fall on me, but then I’m lost in slicing, swinging, stabbing, thinking only to keep the teeth away from me. I see one leap onto Katniss’ back and I grab a handful of its fur and yank, my knife driving deep into its throat. I move so my back is to Katniss and Finnick makes us a triangle, a few yards in between us, keeping the heaving mass at bay. His trident lashes out again and again, skewering the mutts and flinging them aside. Katniss’ arrows fly with stinging accuracy, dropping the beasts with shots to the eyes, the throats, and still they come. A never-ending surge of hissing, snapping madness trying to tear us apart. How many can there be?

“Peeta!” Katniss cries, “Your arrows!” I dart a glance to her and see that she has a knife in her hand, quiver banging empty on her back. Immediately I move to slip the sheath off over my head to pass it to her. My arms are both overhead, the strap twisting my hands, when I see it. An orange fury of bared teeth and grasping claws, flying at my chest. There’s nothing I can do.

A shrieking scream, a blur of motion, a sickening thud and crunch. The crazed morphling from 6 flies backward into me, clutching the mutt to her, its fangs buried in her chest.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

My arm whips up and down, stabbing and stabbing into the tough, hairy back until the beast releases its jaw and rolls loose. I kick it to the side and plant my feet over the morphling, bracing for the next wave. “Come on, then!” I scream into the mob. “Come on!”

But they don’t advance. They are melting back into the jungle until there is no trace. Except for the dead strewn around us it’s like they were never there.

“Get her,” Katniss tells me. “We’ll cover you.”

She and Finnick stand guard while I turn to scoop up the wasted, frail body. I don’t understand what happened. It looked like she deliberately jumped between the monster and me, took the attack that was meant to be my end. It makes no sense, we didn’t even know she was there, she was so well hidden. Why leave concealment to throw herself into certain death? I can’t understand it, but for whatever reason, she saved my life, and right now I intend to honor her for it.

At the beach, I lay her gently on the sand and Katniss cuts away the jumpsuit over her chest. A slow creep of blood from the four wickedly deep punctures seeps over her gray-green flesh. She’s skin and bones, the drug having burned its way through her and left ruin in its wake. Her mouth gapes open, pulling ragged, torturous breaths into her wrecked lungs. Her eyes are rolling sightlessly, panic and desperation shining in their black depths. She clutches frantically at Katniss’ hand and Katniss looks lost. Finnick turns away helplessly, moving back to the treeline to watch for further threats.

I sink to my knees on her other side and reach to brush her tangled hair back out of her face. Stroking her head, I shush her softly and begin to murmur nonsense to her, words meant only to calm, to ease her distress and usher her gently out of her pain.

“With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable,” I tell her in a low voice. “Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.” Her eyes stop their frantic darting, holding on mine as she fixes her mind on the colors I’m describing. “One time,” I remember, smiling nostalgically, “I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur.” She nods slightly and I continue through the tears pricking at the back of my eyes. “You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one.” My voice falters, she is swirling her hand absently, as though mixing the colors herself.

“I haven’t figured out a rainbow yet,” I whisper. “They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air.” I trail off as she lifts her hand, fingers dripping with her blood, and paints a simple flower on my cheek.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “That looks beautiful.” She beams up at me and a smile lights her eyes, but then she wheezes a rattling breath and the light fades completely as her chest stills, her hand falling slack. The cannon fires and my head sags in despair. Another violent, nonsensical death.

After a moment of silent farewell, I gather her in my arms and carry her out to the deeper water, releasing her to the current that carries her toward the Cornucopia. I turn back to the beach and sink down beside Katniss. We watch without speaking as the hovercraft appears, the claw dropping deftly to scoop her from the water and disappear from sight into the night sky.

Finnick reappears, dropping a bunch of arrows he’s reclaimed in the sand next to Katniss. “Thought you might want these,” he grunts hollowly, collapsing next to us and staring out into the water.

“Thanks,” Katniss says softly before wading out to wash the stinking blood from her weapons. We continue to watch the waves lapping in silence until a quiet swish behind us makes us both turn toward the trees. All the bodies are gone, only a slight swaying of the vines indicating anything happened at all. We stare at each other a moment, then Finnick shrugs and turns away, his eyes on the sand.

He looks hollowed out and I ache for him. He rubs his wrist across his eyes and I put a hand on his shoulder. He meets my gaze and nods once, acknowledging my sympathy, but also my helplessness to make it any better in this awful place. I turn my own eyes back to the water where Katniss is scrubbing at her skin with handfuls of sand. My own skin is itching fiercely, the wounds from the fog have scabbed over. I try to fight it, but it’s incessant and I find my fingers twitching over my arms, my neck, my face.

Katniss returns to the jungle for moss and comes back puzzled. “Where did they go?”

“We don’t know exactly,” Finnick answers blandly. “The vines shifted and they were gone.” He scrapes at the scabs on his forehead.

“Don’t scratch,” Katniss admonishes. “You’ll only bring infection.” We both stop scrubbing at our faces, but surreptitiously rub at legs and ribs. “Think it’s safe to try for the water again?” Katniss asks.

We head back to the tree where I’ve drilled the hole and they stand guard while I wiggle the spile in place. The clear, warm water rushes out and we slurp eagerly at it, rubbing it over our faces and infernally itchy skin, trying to wash the night itself away.

Back on the beach we watch the sky somberly. Dawn can’t be far off, but I feel the creeping exhaustion turning my bones to jelly. My wracked body is screaming for respite and I don’t argue when Katniss offers, “Why don’t you two get some rest? I’ll watch for a while.”

Finnick, however, drawn and haggard, resists in a low voice, “No, Katniss, I’d rather.” He looks shredded and Katniss puts a hand gently on his arm.

“All right, Finnick. Thanks.” She lies down beside me, pressing close in the soft, warm sand and I barely have time to close my eyes before slipping into a deep, cosseted sleep.

My dreams are of color. Soft lavender for Mags, buttery yellow for Cecelia, strident fuchsia for the morphling, and always, a running current throughout, hunter green. Teeth and claws, cannon and seawater, vines and fences, all play out against a chaotic, pulsing background of shifting color. Beasts of every shape and every kind of threat leap and slither and skitter behind my eyelids.

A jostling and hearing Katniss call my name pulls me toward the surface, away from the terrors, but when I open my eyes two horrifying faces, scaly and sickly green, hover inches from my face. With a yelp I try to scramble backward, sand flying as I leap away and Finnick and Katniss fall all over themselves, hooting with laughter. They are dyed a disgusting, mossy green and the peeling scabs all over their skin make them look like they’ve been excavated from a mine disaster just a little too late. I glare balefully as they guffaw, but honestly, watching Katniss shed her worry, even for a moment, and seeing the glow lit from inside her when she laughs, makes my heart lift and I feel myself warming even more toward Finnick Odair.

Even as I think it, a silvery parachute floats down in front of us with a green-tinged loaf of bread from District 4. Message received, Haymitch. Buddy up with Finnick and you’ll feed us.

Finnick passes his hands over the loaf, examining it closely, as though looking for signs of mold? With a shrug, he says, “This will go well with the shellfish,” and I see he has heaped a woven bowl with a fresh catch. He cleans it with quick, sure hands while Katniss shares the tube of ointment they received while I slept. It smells, and the verdigris is definitely off-putting, but it feels fresh and cool, easing the terrible itching as soon as it touches my skin. With a deep sigh of relief, I close my eyes as Katniss works the cream into my back and shoulders.

We eat, the salty bread is perfect with the sweet shellfish, and drink clear water from the tightly woven bowls. It must be late morning, not yet noon judging by the blazing sun. We sit lazily on the beach, none of us quite ready to venture back into the hidden dangers of the jungle.

As if to underline the thought, a scream rings out from across the water. The trees opposite us shudder and dip as an enormous rush of water crests over them, tearing its way down the hill to crash thunderously against the previously calm seawater, sending it surging up the beach, washing up around our knees and threatening to carry away our few belongings. In a chaotic scramble, we gather everything together, watchful eyes on the jungle to see what new threat is coming to us, or if it will be appeased by whoever was unfortunate enough to be caught in the wave.

The cannon booms and we watch the hovercraft send its claw down into the jungle where the wave began, but it’s too far to see who is gathered from the trees to be whisked away in silence.  As the water calms and we are resettling ourselves, Katniss grips my arm.

“There,” she murmurs, a low warning. We turn quickly and peer tensely down the beach as we fade backward into the dense shadows.

Three figures, it’s impossible to tell who they are, are dragging themselves onto the sand. They don’t look well. One circles and loops drunkenly while another pulls the third, stumbling and awkward, barely able to stay upright. All three are a deep, solid red, as though made from brick clay.

“Who is that?” I ask. “Or what,” I reconsider. “Muttations?”

Finnick stands tense and watchful while Katniss knocks an arrow, ready to defend, but the unsteady one pathetically lurches face down into the sand and the only stable one stamps a foot in fury, turning to shove the loopy one over in a rage. Finnick relaxes at once, his lips curving up into a delighted smile.

“Johanna!” he cries, and lopes down the beach toward the trio.

“Finnick!” she calls back in obvious relief. Katniss and I stare at each other with wary skepticism.

“What now?” she asks dubiously.

I shrug, there really is no choice. Though I’m pretty certain I know exactly how pleased Katniss is with this new development. “We can’t really leave Finnick,” I reason.

“Guess not,” she concedes, though she looks like she would rather chew broken glass. “Come on, then.” We set off down the waterline to join the others. Who the others are takes us both completely by surprise. “She’s got Wiress and Beetee!” Katniss exclaims.

“Nuts and Volts?” I echo. “I’ve got to hear how this happened.”

We pick up our pace, arriving in time to hear Johanna explaining disgustedly how the drenching rain they’d been caught in turned out to be not water, but steaming, thick blood. They had stumbled blindly, trying to find a way out, but her partner tribute, Blight, had hit the force field.

“And he left me alone with these two,” she finishes with revulsion, prodding a semi-conscious Beetee with her toe. “He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia. And her-”

We all turn to Wiress, making dazed loops, layered in dried blood and muttering empty-eyed, “Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

Johanna rolls her eyes and snorts, “Yeah, we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock.” At this recognition, Wiress veers toward us, bumping up against Johanna. With a snarl, Johanna shoves her to the ground and growls, “Just stay down, will you?”

Predictably, Katniss reacts immediately. “Lay off her,” she barks.

Johanna turns incredulously, and through clenched teeth repeats venomously, “Lay off her?” Like a striking snake, her hand whips out and cracks across Katniss’ cheek. I leap forward, catching her as she stumbles and Johanna spits, “Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You-” but her voice chokes off as Finnick swings her over his shoulder and hauls her to the water, dunking her abruptly over and over as she shrieks epitaphs at Katniss.

“What did she mean?” Katniss gasps, hand clasping her cheek. “She got them for me?”

“I don’t know,” I shake my head, confounded. “You did want them originally,” I offer, though that doesn’t help any of this make more sense.

“Yeah, I did. Originally.” She stares down at Beetee, motionless and barely breathing. “But I won’t have them long unless we do something.”

As gently as I can, I lift Beetee and carry him down the beach to where we’ve left all our belongings. Katniss leads Wiress by the hand and we spend the next little while trying to get them both clean of all the dried, caked blood. Beetee had a heavy, metal spool of fine wire tied to his belt with vines and I eye it curiously as we scrub and rinse at him in the shallow water. He won his Games by rigging a way to electrocute a whole mob of tributes at once, I remember. It’s odd that the Gamemakers would purposely put something like that in the Cornucopia for him. Definitely something to keep in mind.

Once he’s as clean as we can get him, we lay him face down on a woven mat to examine his wound. He must have lost a lot of blood, but the long slash along his back doesn’t look too deep. Katniss prods at it gently, then scans the arena with watchful eyes.

“Be right back,” she says, before springing lightly to her feet and heading into the trees.

I watch Wiress, sitting dazed in the shallow water. She looks distressed, but more than just upset at the circumstances, more like a little boy who used to be in our class at school. He had a monstrous stutter, could barely communicate when he got excited or angry, and his face had the same look. Like he was consciously trying to force words from a mouth that refused to connect between his brain and other people. I try to remember what helped him when he was worked up. He liked to count pebbles through his fingers sometimes, or make neat piles of sticks or leaves. Somehow that doesn’t seem like what Wiress is looking for, and I try to imagine what will soothe her.

My thoughts are interrupted by Katniss returning with a thick pad she’s fashioned from the soft moss. I watch in proud appreciation as she covers the cut with it, then winds vines around Beetee’s torso to secure it. She’s amazing. I find myself grinning stupidly and try to cover it up by pulling him over to the shade, out of the pounding sun.

“I think that’s all we can do,” she says, surveying her work doubtfully.

“It’s good,” I assure her. “You’re good with this healing stuff. It’s in your blood.”

But she shakes her head. “No, I got my father’s blood.” Her eyes grow sad and distant, and I place a hand on her back, rubbing a gentle circle. We watch the others for a minute in silence before she takes a deep breath and blows it out firmly. “I’m going to see about Wiress.”

I set about cleaning the camp. Washing away as much blood as I can, refilling the water bowls, and cracking the shells of the mountain of shellfish Finnick gathered. He leads Johanna up the beach to the camp and she flops down on the sand with a grunt and half a nod toward me. Finnick smiles and shrugs, giving me a wink I’m not at all sure how I’m supposed to interpret. I watch the sky for a parachute, but apparently Haymitch isn’t trying to encourage us to get along just now.

Johanna is staring at my prosthetic leg curiously. “That doesn’t slow you down?” she asks abruptly.

“Lots,” I answer. “Especially here in the jungle. All the vines, and the ground is a weird texture. I have trouble adjusting my balance.”

She rolls her eyes and stares at Finnick. “A gimp, a nutjob, and a lab tech. We’re screwed.”

I smile widely at her. “You’re forgetting the grumpy lumberjack,” I say helpfully. “What could possibly go wrong?”

She grins back at this and looks me up and down, as though reassessing, then lifts a questioning eyebrow to Finnick. He shrugs in return. Before I can analyze this silent exchange, Katniss returns with Wiress and Johanna turns away, her attention on the food and water. She asks what we’ve been doing since the Cornucopia and Finnick gives a quick recap, his voice mechanical and precise, and he skirts around the details of Mags and the morphling. I understand why he doesn’t want to talk about Mags, but if he’s wary to share about the morphling, I wonder how much he really trusts Johanna. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to discuss it on the cameras that are surely hanging on our every breath right now.

Wiress and Beetee are exhausted and we all offer to watch while others try to sleep, but only Katniss and Johanna actually seem able to stay awake. I lie down gratefully, but keep my eyes on the two girls sitting quietly in the sand, eyes on the jungle. Finnick gradually drifts to sleep, the fatigue finally overcoming his grief, but he twitches and moans softly. Listening to the water lap softly against the sand, I slowly give in to the creeping heaviness that gently pulls me under.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

“Get up,” Katniss calls. I pull myself upright, groggy but ready, scanning for the threat. “Get up- we have to move,” she repeats. Finnick and Johanna are rousing themselves as well, but Beetee can’t seem to clear to his head. 

“What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Johanna demands grumpily, unable to find any danger.

Wiress is still asleep, restless and muttering. Katniss sits back on her heels and explains what she thinks Wiress has been trying to tell us. That the twelve spokes actually section the jungle into twelve separate threats, each occurring for its designated hour. The blood rain is falling to our left, we can hear it, but it doesn’t travel, doesn’t come our way. If it’s true, we’re perilously close to the fog section. I don’t know how long the rain has been falling, but I don’t want to wait around to find out.

Johanna is skeptical, but Finnick convinces her the fog is nasty enough not to risk it and she grudgingly starts to help him gather our meager belongings. I struggle with Beetee to get him dressed, trying not to start his wound bleeding again while Katniss gently shakes Wiress awake.

“Tick, tock!” she cries, leaping up wide-eyed.

“Yes, tick, tock, the arena’s a clock,” Katniss says soothingly. “It’s a clock, Wiress, you were right. You were right.” Wiress visibly relaxes, clutching Katniss’ arm and smiling with relief.

“Midnight,” she says breathlessly.

“It starts at midnight.” Katniss freezes and her eyes grow distant, as if she’s hearing something far off, then she looks to me in confusion. I shake my head, unknowing, and she looks back to Wiress.

“One-thirty,” Wiress chirps.

“Exactly. One-thirty. And at two, a terrible poisonous fog begins there,” Katniss says, pointing a little way down the sand. “So we have to move somewhere safe now.” Wiress stands, happy to help, and gulps thirstily from the bowl Katniss offers. Finnick offers her the last of the bread and she accepts it gratefully, smiling widely when he pats her on the shoulder. I heave a sigh of relief, she seems back to herself. Or close enough. She didn’t need to count pebbles, she needed Katniss.

I stoop to lift Beetee, but he pushes at my hands. His head bobbles and he mumbles something I don’t quite catch. “She’s right there,” I tell him, turning so he can see Wiress. “Wiress is fine. She’s coming, too.” He shakes his head, arm flopping behind him, and then I understand. Johanna gets it at the same time I do.

“Oh, I know what he wants,” she grumbles, and stomps over to his spool. “This worthless thing. It’s some kind of wire or something.” I stare at her, surprised. Does she really not know why he wants it? “That’s how he got cut,” she continues. “Running up to the Cornucopia to get this. I don’t know what kind of weapon it’s supposed to be. I guess you could pull off a piece and use it as a garrote or something.” She snorts a derisive laugh. “But really, can you imagine Beetee garroting somebody?” There’s something disingenuous about the way she talks around it, alarm bells sound in my head and I prod at it gently.

“He won his Games with wire,” I remind her. “Setting up that electrical trap. It’s the best weapon he could have.” She stiffens a little, her face freezing for just a second. I’m sure I called her on something, and just as sure she’s about to either drop a hint or a threat, but Katniss cocks her head and rests a hand on her hip.

“Seems like you’d have figured that out,” she says in a low voice. “Since you nicknamed him Volts and all.”

Johanna clenches her teeth and bristles. “Yeah, that was really stupid of me, wasn’t it?” She takes a step closer to Katniss. “I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were…what again? Getting Mags killed off?” Katniss flexes her fingers around the knife in her belt and Johanna sneers, “Go ahead. Try it. I don’t care if you are knocked up, I’ll rip your throat out.” Somehow, I’m more aggravated these two keep sniping at each other than worried Johanna will actually hurt Katniss. I feel like it’s a front she projects, but it’s too much of a risk to take lightly.

“Maybe we all had better be careful where we step,” Finnick says drily, clearly on the same page. He hands the spool to Beetee, “There’s your wire, Volts. Watch where you plug it.”

Clutching the wire, he lifts his arm so I can get hold of him and I stand, adjusting his weight. “Where to?” I ask, scanning the beach.

“I’d like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we’re right about the clock,” Finnick suggests. I nod approvingly, that’s a good plan. We head down the nearest spoke, on the lookout for any Careers who may be hiding inside it, but it’s doubtful. We’ve been easy targets for hours now. I put Beetee down in the shade on the side of the giant horn and he asks Wiress to clean his wire for him, it’s covered in congealed blood from the rain. She takes it to the water and gets to work, singing a simple rhyme as she dunks it in the sea.

“Oh, not the song again,” Johanna groans. “That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking.”

Wiress stands and points to the wedge next to the one we just left. “Two,” she calls out.

Katniss stands next to her, staring across the water. “Yes, look, Wiress is right. It’s two o’clock and the fog has started.”

“Like clockwork,” I say, smiling into Wiress’ eyes. “You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress.”

“Oh, she’s more than smart,” Beetee interjects as Wiress happily goes back to her task, picking up the song where she left off. “She’s intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines.”

While Katniss explains the analogy to Finnick and Johanna, I lay out a large, smooth leaf I had wrapped under Beetee when I carried him over. With my knife, I start to lightly scratch into the surface, sketching the layout of the arena. The Cornucopia in the center, the strips radiating outward, and the water’s edge, then the jungle’s border. A ringing clang startles me and I snap my head up. Johanna is grinning smugly, an axe vibrating in the golden metal of the horn. She winks at me and I shake my head, turning back to my work with a smile as Katniss comes to see what I’m doing.

“Look how the Cornucopia’s positioned,” I say, and she scans it quickly.

"The tail points to twelve o’clock.” She sees it too.

“Right, so this is the top of our clock.” I sketch the numbers around the clock face and begin to fill in the sections we know. Lightning, blood, fog, monkeys. Katniss points out the wave in the ten o’clock section and I add it on. The others join us, but they don’t have any new information to add. Anything could be out there, waiting for us to stumble into its clutches. “I’m going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers’ weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we’ll stay clear of those,” I say, making scratches on the beaches of the fog and wave, then sit back, eyeing it critically. “Well, it’s a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway,” I shrug.

Oddly, I notice how loud the sound of the knife on the leaf seems. My head jerks up toward the suddenly silent Wiress. Gloss is letting her slide to the ground, a red gash across her lax throat, but an arrow streaks past to lodge in his temple at almost the same time a flying axe thunks solidly into Cashmere’s chest. Brutus’ spear is whistling toward me and I spin away, but Finnick knocks it aside, grunting when Enobaria’s knife finds his thigh. The tributes from Two duck behind the Cornucopia as the cannon booms three deep bellows.

The four of us sprint after them, rounding the horn as they race down one of the spokes. With a shrieking jolt, the ground heaves sideways beneath my feet and I’m flung into the sand. The island whips around, impossibly fast, pulling me down the land toward the water. I claw my fingers deep into the sand, kicking my feet to find purchase, trying desperately not to be flung off. I can barely lift my head, and sand whips in my eyes, but I can see Katniss clinging on, and Finnick, but I can’t find Johanna or Beetee. I pull flat against the ground, arms aching, but my fingers are beginning to slip as the sand shifts beneath me. A grinding, slamming stop and I tumble sideways as the island stops spinning. The pink sky continues to rotate above my head as I stare up at it, dazed and nauseous.

Pulling myself upright, I groan and spit, wiping the stinging, scratchy sand from my eyes. Finnick and Johanna are doing the same, and I turn toward Katniss. She looks fine, dizzy and miserable, but unhurt. Looking up to see me watching her, she gives a thumbs up, smiling faintly, and I feel a fizz of contentment zip through my skin.

Ever since the train home from the last Games, I’ve felt an emptiness that echoes the ghost limb sensation of losing my leg. I’ve felt as though a connection between us had been severed, and the dangling cord was extending into nothingness this entire time. But after the force field stopped my heart, when she’d clung to me so desperately, the way she’s watched me ever since, the natural ease I’ve felt being with her, it’s like I feel reconnected to her. Whole again.

Knowing I fell for this once before, in exactly these same circumstances, I’ve been smarter about what that means. But it’s enough. She may not feel the way I feel about her, but she feels something. She feels I’m a part of her. This is all I could have asked for my last days.

“Where’s Volts?” Johanna’s question shakes me from my reverie. We all leap to our feet, circling the horn, though keeping a hand on the metal to steady our still shaky legs. Finnick finds him, bobbing weakly in the water, his belt keeping his head above water. With no hesitation, Finnick dives in and swims out to tow him back.

“Cover me,” Katniss cries suddenly, and sets off at a run down a strip of land, leaping into the water and churning her way toward Wiress, floating motionless in the waves. The hovercraft materializes overhead and the claw begins to descend. Katniss cuts through the water, racing to get to the floating spool first. With a bump, she collides with the body, coughing and spluttering, trying to untangle Wiress’ grip from the wire. Just as the claw is about to grasp them all together, she turns and swims back to shore, dragging the wire with her. She pulls herself from the water and crosses wearily to Beetee, handing him the reel and watching in silence while he slips it through trembling fingers.

Without a word, she walks into my arms, pressing herself tightly against me, her head buried under my chin. I wrap my arms around her and we stand together, the only pair left. I feel her heart beat against mine. They are in sync.

“Let’s get off this stinking island,” Johanna growls, but her voice wavers.

Everyone gathers what they can, Finnick wrapping the gash from Enobaria’s knife and Katniss helping Beetee to his feet. We decide to make for the twelve o’clock section, that will give us some time to collect ourselves. Agreeing, Johanna, Finnick and I all start off in three different directions.

“Twelve o’clock, right?” I ask. “The tail points at twelve.” I wave at the giant, gleaming curve.

“Before they spun us,” Finnick points out. “I was judging by the sun.”

“The sun only tells you it’s going on four, Finnick,” Katniss says, but Finnick looks doubtful.

“I think Katniss’ point is, knowing the time doesn’t mean you necessarily know where four is on the clock,” Beetee explains, though Finnick and I are clearly more confused by his explanation. “You might have a general idea of the direction,” he continues, “unless you consider that they may have shifted the outer ring of the jungle as well.”

“Yes,” Katniss nods, “so any one of these paths could lead to twelve o’clock.” We walk around and around the Cornucopia, scanning the jungle for any sign, but it looks exactly the same in every section. We don’t want to stumble into the monkeys, or whatever horror the next wedge holds waiting for us.

“I should have never mentioned the clock,” Katniss cries in despair. “Now they’ve taken that advantage away as well.”

“Only temporarily,” Beetee tries to comfort her. “At ten, we’ll see the wave again and be back on track.” I can see in her face though, that’s hours away. And who knows what we’ll blunder into between now and then?

“Yes, they can’t redesign the entire arena,” I say, failing miserably to think of something else.

“It doesn’t matter,” Johanna cuts in, exasperated. “You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless.” Of course, this is the comment that clears the clouds from Katniss’ eyes. I smile to myself and take her hand.

“Come on,” she says firmly. “I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?”

Johanna starts off down a spoke, seemingly at random, and with no better plan we all follow her. At the edge of the trees, we wait tensely, gripping weapons and straining our eyes to see what may be waiting for us.

“Well, it must be monkey hour,” I say finally, tired of just waiting for horrors to come get us. “And I don’t see any of them in there. I’m going to try to tap a tree.”

“No,” Finnick says, pulling my arm. “It’s my turn.”

I shrug. “I’ll at least watch your back,” I tell him.

Johanna shakes her head, “Katniss can do that,” she says, her voice is a little rushed and it catches my attention. “We need you to make another map. The other washed away.” She pulls a leaf free and holds it out toward me, her eyes holding mine steadily. Slowly, I reach up and take the leaf from her. Something is going on, but I can’t tell what it is. She and Finnick clearly want me to stay, and I watch tensely, trying to work out if it’s the right decision. In the end, I decide I trust them, and I turn toward the beach, Katniss moving into the jungle after Finnick.

I lay out the leaf on the ground, starting a quick sketch, but I keep Johanna in my line of sight. Images flash behind my eyes, ever since the gong sounded in the arena. Finnick towing me in from the pedestal, bringing me back after my heart stopped, Mags walking into the fog, the morphling leaping in front of me, Finnick taking a knife to the leg to stop a spear from finding me. And now, the two of them clearly trying to keep me out of the jungle.  Why are they trying so hard to keep me alive?

My hand freezes. Haymitch. I stare sightlessly at the map as pieces begin to fall together. Did he promise her I’d be the one to come out this time? That two-faced, backstabbing, lying – but no, that doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t convince the others to keep me alive at their own expense. There’s something else. Think bigger, I tell myself. Frustrated, I look up at Johanna to find her watching me. I start to open my mouth, but she holds my eyes, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I stare at her wordlessly. And then I hear Prim scream.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

 “Prim!” Katniss’ scream lets me know she’s heard it too. I’m on my feet, Johanna and I bolting for the trees where I see Katniss crashing away into the jungle, Finnick at her heels. A whooshing sound and the vines shudder in front of me, but I’m not thinking, only running, until I crash headlong into solid nothingness.  Thrown backward, I stare, dazed, at the completely transparent barrier. Leaping to my feet, I smash at it with my fists, my knife, kick until my toes crack. Johanna is hacking with her axe, but not even making a mark.

“I can’t hear them,” I cry desperately, and Johanna pauses to listen as well. It’s silent, as though they no longer exist. “Katniss!” I scream. “Katniss!” banging on the wall to no effect.

I run along the wall, keeping my hand on the surface, until it reaches the water and begins to curve around. Cursing, I reverse direction and run back into the trees, but it never ends. I race back to where Johanna is throwing nuts higher and higher, trying to find the top of it. It’s no use, we’re completely sealed out. I stare at her in horrified despair.

Beetee sinks down next to the barrier, digging into the sand at its base. “It came from underground,” he grunts. “It must surround the entire section of jungle.” He shakes his head, bemused. “Amazing,” he says, with grudging admiration.

“Is her sister in there?” Johanna demands, but Beetee and I both shake our heads.

“Impractical,” he decrees. “A recording more likely. They probably have voices for all of us in there, and only activate the ones that will cause the most distress.”

“Jabberjays,” I say. The thought of how they got that scream for it to copy turns my blood to ice. Even Johanna goes pale, her eyes reflecting the same awareness. I stand, my hands pressed to the glass, trying to see into the jungle. Looking desperately for some sign. Why haven’t they come back? They must have realized it’s not real, why don’t they come back?

And then I see her. She and Finnick are running full speed toward us, hands over their ears and tears streaking their faces. I hold out my hands, calling for her to stop, but she can’t hear me. They both bounce back after smashing against the barrier, pained confusion replacing the horror for just a moment. Then, realization hits and panic sets in. Katniss claws at the wall, Finnick bashing his trident against it. I push my hand to the barrier, calling out to her.

“It’s okay! It’s not real! It’s not real!” She matches her palm to mine, her eyes wild, pupils huge, head whipping back and forth frantically.

She and Finnick both whirl away, and I see the dark cloud approaching behind them. Katniss’ mouth opens in a scream and she turns back to me, eyes pleading and tears streaming down her face. I howl in helpless desperation, pressing my head against the barrier, willing her to hear me, to know I’m there, to change places with her.

Finnick folds to the ground, head buried in his arms, but Katniss turns to face the onslaught. She fires over and over, each arrow dropping a horrible body, but they never end, never even slow. Her quiver empty, she slides down the wall, shaking uncontrollably to collapse next to Finnick and curl into a tight ball, burrowing away from the feathery terrors streaking endlessly overhead.

I huddle at the base of the wall, pressing against the invisible surface where Katniss lies trembling, whispering a litany of reassurances, declarations and curses, even though I know she can’t hear me.

An eternity later, a whoosh of air and I have her in my arms. I sweep her up and carry her from that place, holding her tight against me, her body locked in rigid defense. I bring her to the edge of the trees, where we can see the water, feel the warm sand, and I sit with her sheltered in my lap. Rocking gently, I stroke her hair, her face, her back. Lips pressed to her temple, whispering over and over, “It’s okay, it’s not real. I have you. It’s not real.”

Slowly, her body relaxes from its stony stillness and she begins to shake, gripping my shoulder and burying her face in my neck. “It’s all right, Katniss,” I promise.

“You didn’t hear them,” she says in a dull whisper.

“I heard Prim. Right at the beginning. But it wasn’t her,” I tell her firmly. “It was a jabberjay.”

“It was her. Somewhere,” she argues miserably. “The jabberjay just recorded it.”

“No,” I insist. “That’s just what they want you to think. The same way I wondered if Glimmer’s eyes were in that mutt last year.” I suppress a shudder at the memory. “But those weren’t Glimmer’s eyes. And that wasn’t Prim’s voice.” I pour every ounce of certainty I can muster into my words. “Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something and distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying.” I stroke her hair back, but she won’t meet my eyes.

Katniss shakes her head numbly. “No,” she says hollowly. “They were torturing her.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “She’s probably dead.”

“Katniss, Prim isn’t dead,” I say sternly. “How could they kill Prim? We’re almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?”

“Seven more of us die,” she says, her voice scratching pathetically.

“No,” I shake her gently, make her think it through. Make her see. “Back home. What happens when they reach the final eight tributes in the Games?” I put my finger under her chin, lifting her eyes to mine, staring into her tear drenched gaze until she focuses on me. “What happens? At the final eight?”

“At the final eight?” she echoes helplessly. She knows this, it’s been burned into us. “They interview your family and friends back home,” she answers automatically.

“That’s right,” I say. “They interview your family and friends. And can they do that if they’ve killed them all?”

Finnick, who had stumbled out and collapsed wordlessly nearby, has pushed himself up, staring at me ravenously as if he hadn’t had a drink in days and I was holding a water skin. Desperation shines in his eyes as he hangs on my every word.

“No?” Katniss ventures, unwilling to believe the chance being offered to her.

“No,” I assure her. “That’s how we know Prim’s alive. She’ll be the first one they interview, won’t she?” Katniss watches me with the same desperation Finnick has. Clinging to this chance. “First Prim. Then your mother. Your cousin, Gale. Madge.” I stroke her hair again. “It was a trick, Katniss,” I say in my most confident voice, holding her gaze to mine. “A horrible one. But we’re the only ones who can be hurt by it. We’re the ones in the Games. Not them.”

“You really believe that?” she begs.

“I really do.”

She shifts her gaze to Finnick. “Do you believe it, Finnick?”

“It could be,” he answers in a cracked voice. “I don’t know.” He turns to Beetee hopefully. “Could they do that, Beetee? Take someone’s regular voice and make it…” he trails off, shuddering.

“Oh yes,” Beetee replies solemnly. “It’s not even that difficult, Finnick. Our children learn a similar technique in school.”

“Of course Peeta’s right,” Johanna says from behind me. She’s been silent, watching quietly while Katniss and Finnick try to come to grips with what they encountered. “The whole country adores Katniss’ little sister,” she continues in a low, spiky voice. “If they really killed her like this, they’d probably have an uprising on their hands.” She tips her head skyward and glowers into the clouds. “Don’t want that, do they?” Her voice rings furiously through the arena. “Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn’t want anything like that!”

We all stare open-mouthed as she glares defiantly into the sun. I feel something slumbering deep within my chest stir and try to waken. In a flash, I see the country we toured on our trip a few months ago. I feel a connection begin to link itself together, see the wider reach outside the misery of my own situation. I feel part of something larger. And I feel responsibility. The weight of my actions crashes over me. All the death, the loss, the pain that waits, coiled and ready to spring out across our nation, if I make even one wrong move. I have trouble breathing.

“I’m getting water,” Johanna drops her gaze to the trees, deflating before my eyes.

“Don’t go in there,” Katniss pleads, gripping her arm. “The birds-”

“They can’t hurt me,” Johanna replies, her eyes flat and blank. “I’m not like the rest of you. There’s no one left I love.” With that she shakes loose and stalks into the trees.

Finnick moves dazedly to the water, submerging himself and watching the waves sightlessly. Katniss stays huddled in my arms, clinging tightly around my neck.

I kiss her temple softly, running my hand up and down her back, watching Finnick try to calm himself down. “Who did they use against Finnick?” I ask curiously.

“Somebody named Annie.”

“Must be Annie Cresta,” I nod, thinking back over my note taking before the reaping.

“Who?” she asks, and I’m encouraged by the small spark of interest in her voice.

“Annie Cresta,” I repeat softly, not wanting our words to carry out to Finnick. “She was the girl Mags volunteered for. She won about five years ago.”

“I don’t remember those Games much,” she admits. “Was that the earthquake year?”

I nod, squeezing her a little tighter. That was the year she lost her father. “Yeah. Annie’s the one who went mad when her district partner got beheaded. Ran off by herself and hid. But an earthquake broke a dam and most of the arena got flooded. She won because she was the best swimmer.”

We both watch Finnick in silence for a moment, wondering why this famous lover of the Capitol was so destroyed by a mad girl calling his name.

“Did she get better?” Katniss asks. “I mean, her mind?”

I think back, but I can’t recall hearing about it. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t remember ever seeing her at the Games again. But she didn’t look too stable during the reaping this year.” We sit together quietly, thinking our own thoughts about love, and how little control we have over it.

The boom of a cannon brings us all to our feet and we huddle together, watching across the water as a hovercraft appears and the claw descends five separate times to gather the torn apart remains of an unknown tribute. I return to the leaf where I was making the new map and scratch “JJ” and “beast” into two more sections.

We spend the evening cleaning up, putting our shaken sensibilities back together by trying to restore some order to the camp. We’re about to start dinner when the anthem rings across the water. I look up, not having noticed how dark it was getting. The seal glows in the moonlit sky before giving way to the shimmering faces of the dead. Eight more. Mags, Wiress, the morphling, all shine down from the darkness for the last time.

“They’re really burning through us,” Johanna growls.

“Who’s left?” Finnick asks. “Besides us five and District 2?”

“Chaff.” I’m relieved Haymitch’s friend is still with us. For how long, I wonder.

A bright spot in the darkening sky grows to become a parachute, holding a pile of fresh rolls. “These are from your district, right, Beetee?” I ask.

“Yes, from District 3,” he replies with a weird emphasis, I think. “How many are there?”

Finnick, as usual, is turning the bread over in his hands, examining it closely. “Twenty-four,” he reports firmly.

“An even two-dozen, then?” Beetee checks.

“Twenty-four on the nose,” Finnick confirms and I look back and forth between the two of them. That seems like a lot of conversation around a simple counting task, and I’m made aware again that there is a current running beneath the communication that I’m not part of.

“How should we divide them?” Finnick asks and I try to decipher what else could possibly be meant by that. I’m completely unable to come up with anything sinister and, drained from the effort, settle down with the rest of them to dig in to the fresh fish and soft bread.

Once the ten o’clock wave has exhausted its fury on the beach and the water has calmed again, we make camp on that beach. This seems like the safest place to be for the next few hours and we set up to stay for a while. Katniss and I take the first watch, the other three dropping asleep almost immediately. We sit, sides pressed together, her gaze on the water, mine on the trees. I watch Finnick toss and whimper in his sleep, occasionally moaning Annie’s name. Johanna sleeps like the dead, not surprisingly. She’s been awake almost the entire time we’ve been in the arena.

With a small sigh, Katniss lays her head on my shoulder. I reach up and stroke her long, thick hair. I close my eyes for a brief second, luxuriating in the closeness, both physical and otherwise. I watch the jungle with clear-eyed intensity. This is the way it’s supposed to be. Us, together. My heartbeat quickens as it comes clear to me. She is mine, now and always. We belong to each other. My part in this means keeping her safe to have the life she deserves.  The protectiveness I feel toward her surges up in my chest and rises in bubbling, joyful certainty.

“Katniss,” I say her name softly. “It’s no use pretending we don’t know what the other one is trying to do.” She stiffens next to me, but I continue firmly, I have to make her understand. “I don’t know what kind of deal you think you’ve made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well.” I pause, letting it sink in. We can’t rely on him anymore. She has to see there is only one way for this to go. “So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us.”

“Why are you saying this now?” she demands, lifting her head and staring steadily into my eyes.

“Because I don’t want you forgetting how different our circumstances are,” I say fervently. “If you die, and I live,” I shrug helplessly. “There’s no life for me at all back in District 12. You’re my whole life.”  I hold her steely gray gaze. “I would never be happy again.” My entire heart is in my words. She tries to protest, but I put a finger against her lips. This is inarguable. “It’s different for you,” I explain gently. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard. But there are other people who make your life worth living.”

I duck my head, lifting the fine golden chain free and dangling it in my palm in the moonlight, watching the mockingjay catch the light. I glide my thumb over the face and the locket slides open. Katniss’ breath catches in her throat and her eyes fill with tears. She sees the truth for what it is. Her mother, Prim and, if she’ll accept him, Gale. All waiting for her, waiting to make a life with her. All needing her to make their lives complete.

“No one really needs me,” I tell her, desperate for her to see how important this is. How only one of us absolutely has to make it home.

“I do,” she says scratchily, her lashes sparkling with tears, but gray eyes holding mine steadily. “I need you.”

I pull a ragged, quick breath. My pulse races and I hear the truth in her words. She is speaking honestly, from her heart, and it breaks mine into aching pieces. Desperate, I start to argue, to convince her she’s mistaken, but she reaches up and pulls my head down to her mouth and I’m lost. The fierce, familiar hunger races through my veins and I tighten my arms around her, blurring the lines between us until we become one, aching sweetness and burning desire flooding my being. She grips me closer, tangling her fingers in the hair at the back of my neck, responding in kind and demanding more.

The crash of lightning announcing midnight snaps us back to reality. Finnick leaps up with an anguished cry, wild-eyed until he convinces himself where he is. He stands on shaky legs, coming to join us, more to not be alone, I think, than anything.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” he says hollowly. “One of you should rest.” His gaze sharpens and he takes in the way we’re tangled together, our flushed faces and trembling breath. “Or both of you,” he amends. “I can watch alone.”

I shake my head firmly. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not tired,” I say honestly. I don’t think I could sleep if my life depended on it. Which, actually, it probably does. “You lie down, Katniss.” I walk with her to where the others are sprawled in the sand. I look into her eyes for a moment, the glittering sea reflecting in the gray depths, then slip the locket chain over her head. I place my hand gently on her belly, a pang of deep sadness that the children she will carry will never know me. “You’re going to make a great mother, you know,” I murmur, and lean in to kiss her once more, lingering at the sweetness of her lips on mine. Then I walk back to Finnick and, side by side in silence, we keep our vigil in the dark.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Pacing the beach, I watch the light flare over the lip of the hill, the gilded-edged orange and fuchsia giving way to the soft, icing-sugar pink as the sun rises over the arena.  Tipping my head back, I try to absorb as much of this unspeakable beauty as possible. The clean light illuminating the broad leaves of the jungle, glittering like diamonds on the rippling waves, laying soft, golden fingers on the sleeping form of Katniss, my brave, strong, unattainable love.

Locking my hands together behind my neck, I stare out over the water toward the gleaming Cornucopia. My heart flutters against my ribs as I replay last night in mind. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips and I feel a fizzing happiness in my belly. Turning to look at her, my arms ache with the need to go to her, gather her close, hold her tight against my heart. I turn back to the water. Of course, that can never happen. Last night, I showed her what a life at home could offer her. My every effort now has to be in convincing her to take that offer. But an inner glow warms my skin at the memory of her lips crushed against mine. I smile widely at the gently lapping waves. She cares. All the rest will be worth it.

Finnick moves quietly up behind me, standing and watching the water in companionable silence. He seems to have shaken off the terrors that haunted him in the night. I wonder if he has a vault like my own, and what horrors are crammed inside it.

“You’re grinning like an idiot,” he observes idly.

I feel my cheeks burn, but the grin only widens. “No, I’m not,” I deny. “This is my normal face. You’re confusing me with Johanna, she’s the grumpy one.”

“Maybe,” he allows. “Was she the one suckered onto Katniss like a starfish last night?”

My laugh echoes across the water and I turn guiltily to the beach, but Katniss remains still, chest rising and falling lightly in her sleep. Beetee and Johanna are already up, stretching and swiping sand from skin and hair. Finnick smiles kindly at my giddiness. “Grab onto it, brother,” he advises. “Hell, there’s precious little of it to go around.”

Johanna saunters up to join us, shaking her head ferociously. “I swear there are sand mites crawling through my ears and into my brain,” she grumbles. She looks at me and her clear gaze sharpens. “What’s with him?” she asks Finnick with a sneer. I can tell I’ve turned twenty shades of crimson and she smiles wickedly, winking while Finnick’s laugh rings out.

Beetee, limping a little and favoring his side, smiles benignly, peering from under his glasses as though trying to find the joke. He points over my shoulder and we all turn to see a silver flutter, a parachute on the way toward us. Katniss is awake and joins us, scratching irritably at her peeling skin. She meets my eyes shyly and Finnick turns away abruptly, turning his guffaw into a highly suspicious cough. He catches the bundle and counts out the bread as usual. It’s the same delivery, twenty-four rolls from District 3.

Katniss and I sit together to eat. She doesn’t talk much, but she presses against me and the warmth on my skin isn’t only from the blazing sun. When we’ve finished, she grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll teach you how to swim.”

We walk out to the shallow water, about waist deep, and she demonstrates a simple stroke. At first I don’t like it, the falling sensation of not having anything solid under me is disconcerting, but once I start to trust the water, start to feel the freedom of weightlessness, I love it. I thrash back and forth, kicking up huge splatters on either side and causing Katniss to laugh and cover her face from the splashing. After a while I get more efficient. My prosthetic leg drags a little strangely, but once I master it I can slice through the water and dip beneath. The cool, green silence is entrancing.

I come up for air, blowing and shaking my head briskly, droplets flying in glittering jewels through the sunlight. I laugh toward the sky and Finnick looks up from the net he’s weaving next to a sleeping Johanna, grinning and giving me a thumbs up. Katniss calls me over, she’s found that she can scrub the itchy scabs free with handfuls of the rough sand. It feels so good to scrape the sand over my skin, leaving smooth pink in the place of mottled green. I moan a little under my breath.

“Look,” Katniss begins in a low voice, her eyes staying on the arm she’s scrubbing, “the pool is down to eight. I think it’s time we took off.”

My stomach drops at this reminder. Swimming, fishing, joking with each other, none of this can last. It’s ridiculous and dangerous to forget this. I nod solemnly, considering our options. I don’t want to be the one to end the life of any of our three allies, better to be far away when that happens. A sick chill rolls over me at the thought of abandoning them to danger.

“Tell you what,” I say, and even as I speak the words, I know I’m not being truthful, with her or with myself. I just can’t bear the thought of these people I’ve come to think of as friends facing a threat without me to there to help. “Let’s stick around until Brutus and Enobaria are dead. I think Beetee’s trying to put together some kind of trap for them now. Then, I promise, we’ll go.”

She slows her hands, her gaze distant, calculating. I feel wretched, cowardly, but am still able to convince myself this is the best play. Why face two threats instead of just one?

“All right,” she says eventually. “We’ll stay until the Careers are dead. But that’s the end of it,” and she looks me in the eye, determination in every line of her.

“Hey, Finnick, come on in!” she calls happily, and I cringe at the quick, too-easy shift in her tone. “We figured out how to make you pretty again!” The three of us scrub ourselves smooth again, helping each other reach backs and shoulders, and rubbing ointment into each other to ward off the sun. My heart aches.

Beetee, who’s been stationed in the shade, concentrating on his wire, calls us all together. He has, as I suspected, come up with a plan to kill Brutus and Enobaria. Katniss is worried they’ve figured out the arena is a clock and Beetee agrees that if they haven’t already, they will very soon. “So I think our best bet will be setting our own trap,” he says somberly.

Finnick rouses Johanna from her nap and she joins us as Beetee draws a quick outline of the wedges of the arena. “If you were Brutus and Enobaria, knowing what you do now about the jungle, where would you feel safest?”

I watch him carefully, wanting to follow his thinking. “Where we are now. On the beach,” I answer. “It’s the safest place.”

“So why aren’t they on the beach?” He poses the question like a school teacher helping his students toward an understanding.

“Because we’re here,” Johanna says, her tone implying he should just get on with it.

“Exactly,” he replies patiently, ignoring her eye roll. “We’re here, claiming the beach. Now where would you go?”

“I’d hide just at the edge of the jungle,” Katniss reasons. “So I could escape if an attack came. And so I could spy on us.”

“Also to eat,” Finnick adds. “The jungle’s full of strange creatures and plants. But by watching us, I’d know the seafood’s safe.”

Beetee beams like a proud father. “Yes, good. You do see.” His eyes grow serious. “Now here’s what I propose: a twelve o’clock strike. What happens exactly at noon and at midnight?”

Katniss answers promptly. “The lightning bolt hits the tree.”

“Yes,” he nods. “So what I’m suggesting is that after the bolt hits at noon, but before it hits at midnight, we run my wire from that tree all the way down into the saltwater, which is, of course, highly conductive. When the bolt strikes, the electricity will travel down the wire and into not only the water, but also the surrounding beach, which will still be damp from the ten o’clock wave. Anyone in contact with those surfaces at that moment will be electrocuted,” he concludes with grim finality.

A long silence as we all try to think of a hitch in the plan, but since none of us have ever worked with electricity we have trouble giving any real feedback.

“Will that wire really be able to conduct that much power, Beetee?” I ask, remembering with a shiver the mighty jolt I’d been dealt from the force field. “It looks so fragile, like it would just burn up.”

Beetee nods approvingly, “Oh, it will,” he agrees. “But not until the current has passed through it. It will act something like a fuse, in fact. Except the electricity will travel along it.”

“How do you know?” Johanna asks skeptically.

“Because I invented it,” he replies with quiet assurance. “It’s not actually wire in the usual sense. Nor is the lightning natural lightning nor the tree a real tree. You know trees better than any of us, Johanna. It would be destroyed by now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answers, unable to argue with this.

“Don’t worry about the wire – it will do just what I say.” Beetee says confidently. I watch him curiously. It strikes me again how odd it is that such a unique item was conveniently waiting for him in the Cornucopia. Who was making sure that was there for him? Of course, there were also axes for Johanna and bows for Katniss. I guess it just makes sense we all had our temptations to draw us toward the initial bloodbath, and to give the audience the best possible show.

“And where will we be when this happens?” Finnick asks, eyeing the sandy beach.

“Far enough up in the jungle to be safe.”

“The Careers will be safe, too, then, unless they’re in the vicinity of the water,” Katniss worries.

“That’s right,” Beetee agrees, shrugging.

“But all the seafood will be cooked,” I point out, already missing the fresh shellfish Finnick is so good at supplying.

“Probably more than cooked,” Beetee acknowledges. “We will most likely be eliminating that as a food source for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Nuts and rats. And we have sponsors.”

Beetee nods. “Well, then. I don’t see that as a problem. But as we’re allies and this will require all our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you four.”

A moment, while we all try to think of some reason not to try it. Then Katniss speaks up. “Why not? If it fails, there’s no harm done. If it works, there’s a decent chance we’ll kill them. And even if we don’t and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source, too.”

I nod. She makes sense. “I say we try it. Katniss is right.”

“All right,” Johanna concedes, holding Finnick’s gaze. “It’s better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they’ll figure out our plan, since we can barely understand it ourselves.”

With everyone in agreement, I feel energized. I much prefer having a plan of action to sitting around waiting for something awful to happen. It must be about nine o’clock, we’ll need to move soon to avoid the wave and Beetee wants to check out the lightning tree anyway. So, packing up our camp, we cross to the section alongside the lightning and begin our trek into the jungle.

Finnick and I take turns carrying Beetee, still too weak to manage the hike on his own, while Johanna leads and Katniss brings up the rear, covering us with her loaded bow. As we push forward, the heavy, muggy air feels like syrup in my lungs. I’ve been hot and sticky since we got here and I begin to crave the calm, weightlessness of the water from this morning. No wonder Finnick loves it so much, I think, as we climb higher. The Careers probably don’t have a spile, I imagine. How are they getting water? I chuckle under my breath as I picture fang-toothed Enobaria gnawing a hole in a tree trunk.

As we near the tree Finnick calls for Katniss to take the lead. “Katniss can hear the force field,” he tells the others.

“Hear it?” Beetee asks, clearly baffled at the idea. I knew it, I think, smiling to myself.

“Only with the ear the Capitol reconstructed,” she explains sheepishly.

Beetee lets it go gracefully. “Then by all means, let Katniss go first. Force fields are nothing to play around with.”

Katniss gathers a handful of nuts and chucks them at a few different points until she’s satisfied she knows the placement. “Just stay below the lightning tree,” she tells us.

Everyone is busy, Finnick on guard while Beetee makes his investigation and Johanna tapping a tree. I gather some more nuts while Katniss moves off a short way to hunt, coming back soon with one of the repulsive tree rats. Sitting together a few feet from the fence, we take turns tossing nuts and cubes of meat at it, making a game of trying to catch them when they bounce back, nicely seared.

Beetee is fussily busy, taking measurements, making mental notes, examining the tree from all angles. He comes over to join us, carrying a piece of the tree bark that he tosses against the force field. It shoots backward and we stare at it among the underbrush as it glows softly for a minute before returning to its natural color. Beetee is delighted and grins at us from under his glasses.

“Well, that explains a lot,” he says happily. I nod, firmly stifling a grin, but I’m almost undone when I meet Katniss’ eyes and see the hilarity sparkling there.

A moment later we all rise to our feet and instinctively gather together, staring into the section next to us. A chaotic clicking and chittering rises from the jungle, invisible but ominous. It must be eleven o’clock.

“It’s not mechanical,” Beetee says quietly.

“I’d guess insects,” Katniss says, peering into the trees. “Maybe beetles.”

“Something with pincers,” Finnick says uneasily. Our words, quiet as they’ve been, have excited whatever lurks in the shadows next to us and the sound swells threateningly.

“We should get out of here, anyway,” Johanna says with exaggerated nonchalance. “There’s less than an hour before the lightning starts.”

We move over one section and eat our lunch. After eating, Katniss shimmies up into the high branches to watch the lightning strike from a safe distance. She comes back down to report and Beetee nods with satisfaction.  Our work done, we make our way back to the beach where the sand is smooth and glistening from the wave a few hours ago.

With everything set, and the Careers not daring to attack while so desperately outnumbered, we have a few hours to ourselves. We nap in the shade, have target competitions, swim. I make every excuse I can to touch Katniss, brushing against her leg, stroking back her hair, holding her hand. I’m keenly aware these are the last few hours of my life and I soak in the joy of the feeling of completeness, the strong connection vibrating between us and tethering us together. Of knowing that she feels it too.

For dinner, we decide on a seafood feast, since this is likely our last meal that won’t consist of gamey rodents. I’m ecstatic to be able to dive for oysters, blowing out glowing bubbles of air as I wiggle downward, digging my fingers into the cold sand on the sea floor. Finnick makes a point of staying under just a little longer than I do, no matter how long I stay, and soon it’s a competition. I don’t stand a chance, but the contortions and faces we pull underwater, trying to get the other to laugh and come up for air, are easily worth the defeat.

On the beach we clean the catch, setting out a fantastic meal. Using my knife the way Finnick showed me, I twist and pop an oyster shell open and there, glowing softly in the meaty folds, is a perfect, shimmering pearl. I laugh delightedly, Effie Trinket springing immediately to mind.

“Hey, look at this,” I exclaim, grinning hugely. “You know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls,” I say soberly to Finnick, and chuckle at his scornful response.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Katniss throws her head back, laughter echoing over the water. Watching her, I remember her interview dress, before it burned away into a symbol of defiance. Even though it had been terrible, she had looked so beautiful, the white silk against her dark, shining hair and perfect skin. And the pearls. Glowing and shimmering, along the neckline, down the sleeves, beading the gown. My beautiful bride. I will never marry her, but in my heart, no matter what comes for her after this, I belong only to her for as long as I draw breath.

Rinsing the pearl in the water, I hold it out to her. “For you.”

She takes it, examining it closely, her face solemn. “Thank you,” she says evenly. She lifts her eyes to mine and my blood turns to ice. Her steely gray gaze holds nothing but stubborn resolve and finality.

“The locket didn’t work, did it?” I ask in flat despair. She doesn’t answer, holding my eyes steadily. “Katniss?” I plead.

“It worked,” she says calmly.

“But not the way I wanted it to.” I turn away bitterly. How did I not see that coming? Katniss, who flung herself in front the Peacekeeper’s whip, who berates herself for not sacrificing her own safety to save a random stranger in the woods. Katniss, who has no sense of proportion. Of course she doesn’t see the several people who will be better off if she just comes home. She only sees the one life in front of her she thinks she has to save. I want to scream my frustration.

Well, Katniss is the stubborn one, it’s true. She has earned her reputation. But I have steel of my own. She will not get her way in this. I stare out toward the silent Cornucopia, watching her from the corner of my eye. I will deliver her from this arena kicking and shrieking, but she is going home.

Our last meal is a companionable one, made infinitely better by yet another delivery of twenty-four rolls from District 3, but also a little ramekin of a spicy, delicious sauce. We eat until we can’t hold another bite, throwing the leftovers to the sea to keep them out of other hands. After, Katniss and I sit in the sand, watching the sun set into the water, hand in hand. I can feel her radiating silent determination, but it no longer bothers me. I wind my fingers more securely through hers. She has met her match.


	25. Chapter Twenty-FIve

Around nine we pack our camp and cross the beach to begin our climb to the lightning tree. The bright moon sails quietly overhead, its silvery light guiding us as we move quietly through the jungle. I watch Finnick and Johanna as they hike, moving together, watchful eyes on the trees, but unintentionally in sync with each other. What are they planning, I wonder? They have to know our alliance is nearing an end as well. What does that mean for the bizarre feeling I’ve been unable to shake that I’m being protected?

When we reach the tree, Katniss, Johanna and I fan out, facing the jungle, while Finnick helps Beetee with the spool. Beetee finds a sturdy branch and they wind yards of the wire tightly around it, then set it aside. I thought I had a basic understanding of how this plan would work, but I clearly have no idea. Fortunately, Beetee seems very confident and works quickly and efficiently, he and Finnick passing the reel back and forth around the trunk in an intricate pattern. It’s really beautiful, the shining copper glinting in the moonlight, the dark shadows of the jungle in stark relief.

Just as they’re finishing, I hear the rising thunder of the wave beginning. We need to hurry. Beetee, eyes shining with eager anticipation, asks Katniss and Johanna to take the coil back down to the beach and submerge it, then run for safety in the jungle.

“I want to go with them as a guard,” the words come out automatically.

“You’re too slow,” Beetee counters, and I begin to feel panic rising in my chest. “Besides, I’ll need you on this end. Katniss will guard.” I’m shaking my head obstinately, there is no way I’m letting Katniss out of my sight. “There’s no time to debate this,” Beetee says urgently, as he sees me open my mouth to refuse. “I’m sorry. If the girls are to get out of there alive, they need to move now,” and he places the spool in Johanna’s hands.

I’m frozen with indecision. A squirming, boiling knot of fear in my belly is screaming not to let her go, I’d be crazy to let her go. But Beetee’s right, I’d be a liability at best. And if I insist I go despite this, it will rouse suspicion for certain. The others have to be coming to the same conclusion about ending our alliance, I’m sure of it. I look desperately to Katniss.

“It’s okay,” she says calmly. “We’ll just drop the coil and come straight back up.”

“Not into the lightning zone,” Beetee cuts in adamantly. “Head for the tree in the one-to-two-o’clock sector. If you find you’re running out of time, move over one more. Don’t even think about going back on the beach, though, until I can assess the damage.”

Every word is making me more and more panicked. The very idea of her leaving makes me feel sick, but every second she stays here puts her in more danger. My brain whirls uselessly, I can’t think of a way out of this.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly, taking my face in her hands and meeting my eyes with her calm, steady gaze. I stare into the clear, gray depths, my heart aching. “I’ll see you at midnight.” She leans forward and her lips meet mine, the sweet, fiery buzz of her kiss racing over my skin and sending my heart to banging against my ribs. Don’t let her go.

She turns away and looks to Johanna. “Ready?”

Johanna tears herself from a silent communication with Finnick and shrugs resignedly. “Why not? You guard, I’ll unwind. We can trade off later.”

And as easily as that, they turn and head back for the water, trailing the fine, glinting wire behind them. I stare after Katniss as she disappears away from me into the shadows, a desperate, stifling panic rising as she fades from my sight.

Finnick puts a hand on my shoulder. “She’s going to be fine,” he says softly. “Johanna won’t let anything happen to her.” I stare back at him, incredulous. Johanna cannot survive if Katniss does. Her entire purpose here is to make sure something does happen to Katniss. He wrinkles his nose in chagrin. “You know what I mean,” he shrugs.

But I don’t. I have no idea what’s going on in the whispers between the two of them. I don’t know if Beetee’s in on it, or if Mags was, or if Haymitch is. I don’t know if I just let Katniss walk off to her death without doing anything to stop it.

“Let’s just get this done and go find them,” I say. It’s no use trying to second guess what’s already done, and if I think about it too much more I’m going to lose my very tenuous grasp on control.

Beetee checks fussily at the wrapping around the tree trunk, and then takes the wire-wound branch from earlier and begins to uncoil it. “Peeta, may I use one of your knives?” he asks conversationally.

Without questioning it, I hand over a sturdy, shorter blade. Beetee begins to wind the wire around the hilt, securing it to the knife.

“What’s that for?” I ask curiously. I can’t begin to think of a reason he’d want to have this second wrapping.

“Backup,” he replies cryptically.

“It must be eleven,” Finnick cuts in. He’s right, the jungle to our left has come alive with the chitter of clicking mandibles. He edges further away from the sound nervously. My skin prickles as I wonder how close Katniss is to the water. She’ll make it, she’s quick as a rabbit and just as sure footed. There’s no reason to worry. And just as the thought settles through me, the wire stretching into the jungle springs backward in a sudden tumble of golden coils.

I snap my head to Finnick and he meets my panicked gaze with his own. Leaping forward, I sprint for the jungle, desperate to get to her. As I race past Finnick, his arm whips out and he snags me from behind. I slam backward, hitting the ground hard and my head smashes against something solid. Dazed and unable to breathe, my vision wavers and spins. I hear Finnick’s voice as though he’s far down a tunnel. “I’ll go, stay with Beetee.”

The hell I will. I shove myself to my knees, clutching my head and breathing in ragged gasps. I force my feet under me and stand, wavering and trying to get my bearings. The clicking threat next to us has swelled to a buzzing hum and as my vision comes into focus I see Beetee, hands raised in front of him, as though calming a nervous animal.

“Now, just think,” he says in a mild voice. “Think of everything you’ve been through, everything we’ve all been through.”

My head finally clears enough that I can see what’s happening. Chaff stands before Beetee, a spear clutched in his fist, pointed at Beetee’s chest, a lunatic gleam in his eyes.

“You know what I’ve been through,” he snarls at Beetee, who doesn’t waver. “Seeder had her throat cut in front of me by our ‘allies’ as soon as the gong sounded,” he growls, tears glinting on his cheeks. “Woof took a spear to his belly from that monster from One on the first day. What are we doing here?” he cries.

I can’t make sense of what they’re talking about, but I don’t care at all. While they’re occupied with each other, I start to inch away toward the tree line. Chaff turns on me with a snarl. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands.

“Chaff,” I plead. “I have to help Katniss.” I don’t know why I think he’ll care, I just know he’s Haymitch’s friend and I’m desperate.

“Help her?” he hoots, laughing like a maniac. “You can’t help her! We’re all dead, boy. Don’t you know that yet?”

Shaking my head, I back away slowly, toward the path Katniss followed, but keeping my eyes fixed on Chaff and his raised spear, which is how I almost trip right over Brutus. His legs tangled in the snarl of wire, he slashes at me from the ground. Only my fake leg saves me, taking a ringing blow and causing Brutus to growl a curse as he disentangles himself and lunges to his feet. He swings again, his blade missing by a hair as I spin and twist out of the way, my own knife darting toward his stomach, but he evades it. He’s huge, but surprisingly quick.

Trying to see every direction at once, I swing from Brutus to Chaff to Beetee. I see Beetee move toward the force field, he’s clutching the wire-wrapped knife and his arm is raised above his head. Chaff sees my attention be drawn and snaps his head back to Beetee. With a guttural scream, he hurls the spear at Beetee who swings his arm down, driving the knife into the force field. The spear slashes across his arm, deflecting the blow so the knife only hits glancingly, but it’s enough to blast him backward, bowling over Chaff as he’s flung onto his back. Chaff lurches back, barely keeping his feet and reeling to find his balance. He grabs a tree trunk to steady himself and stands, staring at Beetee’s twitching body.

Seeing he’s unarmed, Brutus changes tactics and surges toward Chaff, tackling him around the waist and stabbing fiercely into his abdomen. Chaff coughs a burbling, choking sound and swings his fists down together onto Brutus’ wide back, breaking his grip and shoving himself free, staggering backward. With a berserk grin, he resettles his feet to launch at the Career, but it’s too late. Eyes wide with horror, he twitches jerkily, flinging his hand sideways, and the gigantic monster crawling on it is flung into the trees. His stumble has carried him into the eleven o’clock wedge and even as he realizes it, a throng of chittering, skittering, crawling nightmares swarms over him, completely covering him from head to toe. He screams and flails, a black, formless mass collapsing to writhe horribly on the ground for only a minute before the cannon booms and he goes still.

Turning away, sick and grief-stricken, I see Brutus has refocused on me. With shocking ferocity, he whips a second blade from behind him and, screaming like a wildcat, charges at me. I turn and run.

Crashing through the trees, I can hear him behind me, snarling and gaining ground. It’s true, I’m much too slow. Searching desperately as I run, I scan for an open area, somewhere I can turn and fight. I need to be able to get inside his reach, and for that I need room to maneuver. A blade whistles past me, opening a stinging gash along my side and I jerk in a quick breath. Too close, this will have to do. I spin around, catching him off-guard and he skids, trying to regain control but coming close enough for me to strike. Both hands wrapped around my knife, I drive it into his side with all my strength and wrench it upward, opening a horrible, gaping wound across his ribs.

He howls and falls to one knee, but swings up his knife to catch my next blow. Face contorted with rage, he heaves himself to his feet and his blade flashes at my head. I duck under it, thanking everything I can think of he seems to have been slowed a little. He grins wolfishly as he sizes me up.

“I found your girl in the jungle, lover boy,” he taunts, and my veins turn to ice. “I thought you filthy miners would have tar black blood, but hers was red as my favorite wine.”

My vision swims as panic overtakes me and I begin to shake uncontrollably. He pulls himself up straight and leers with mocking triumph. There was no cannon. There was no cannon. He’s lying. There was no cannon. My reeling brain clings frantically to this thought.

“Katniss!” I scream, terror pitching my voice high. “Katniss!”

“Peeta!” Relief makes my ears ring and I almost drop to the ground as my knees turn to jelly. “Peeta! I’m here! Peeta!”

She continues to call for me, and I’m certain she’s trying to draw attackers to herself instead of me. I lift my gaze to the enormous Career standing between me and Katniss. My eyes narrow to slits and my lip lifts in a snarl. My knife flashes out, a slice opening across his forearm as he’s a little too slow to move. But he recovers almost immediately and his wrist twists backward, slashing back at me. I barely manage to get my own blade up to deflect it, but with a twist, both knives go flying.

He grins wickedly, flexing his gigantic frame, towering over me. Enormous hands shoot out, grabbing for my throat, but I whip to the side, then quickly back as he reverses and swipes at me again. I dart backward, putting some distance between us. Predictably, he lowers his head and charges like a rabid dog. I brace myself for the collision, arms up and feet planted wide. And then, at the last possible second, I drop to one knee and he stumbles forward as he grabs for what is no longer there. Shoving upward as hard as I can with all the strength of my prosthetic leg, I use his speed to heave him up and over my shoulder. He flies backward and smashes mightily into the force field with a sizzling, zapping pop. His limp body hurtles back at me and flops into a heap at my feet. A cannon booms through the night as I stagger away, trying not to look, trying to stop shaking.

“Katniss!” I shriek into the darkness.

I thrash through the trees, stumbling, hauling myself up, dragging at vines and trunks, clawing my way back to where I heard her calling. I can just see the tree, wrapped in glinting copper, behind Enobaria who is racing toward me, away from the gigantic lightning rod. Fleeing for her life, she doesn’t see me until it’s too late. With a thundering crash, we smash into each other and go down in a flailing storm of legs and arms. She’s dazed and stays down, groping blindly, but I leap immediately to my feet and turn back to the tree. I’m just in time to see the mighty bolt of electricity shudder through the tree and an incandescent white spark fizz upward in a line from the trunk. Throwing up my arm, my eyes burn as the entire overhead dome flares a blinding blue and then, for the second time, I’m blown backward by the concussion. Flying like a ragdoll to land in a boneless heap, motionless, breathless, useless. As the explosions begin, one thought echoes through my rapidly dimming awareness. “Katniss.”


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Katniss. The world detonates into blazing shards around me and I lie helpless, frozen and staring up at the pinwheeling sky. Blasts of earth geyser into the air while trees explode in columns of flame, roaring and slavering at the dome as it sparks and disintegrates overhead. Katniss. My heart beats her name. Streaking rockets of color scream upward to bloom into showering bursts of glittering gold, green and red. Fireworks?

The Gamemakers must have had some kind of kill switch ready. A self-destruct. Why did they trigger it? Was it the plan all along that none of us would leave this place? Katniss. My heart aches with my failure. I couldn’t protect her after all. Failed to keep her safe. Katniss.

Through the chaos and flame, a hovercraft appears in the annihilated sky near the tree. The claw descends jerkily, quicker than its usual smooth glide. In seconds it begins to retract and the core of me shatters into a million jagged shards. The streaming dark hair is unmistakable, the lolling head and limbs telling the story of my ruin. Black despair washes over me, my lungs unable to breathe against it. The claw dips again, pulling up the limp and battered figure of Finnick Odair. The boiling pit yawning in my belly cannot contain my desolation and as my vision closes in around me, the last thing I see is the two white clad Peacekeepers bursting through the trees beside me. Katniss.

 

The incessant beeping gnaws at my awareness until I feel myself pulled back to the surface. I’m lying on a padded table, tubes in my left arm, straps across my legs and chest, and around my wrists. The black, sludgy weight of anguish fills my chest and settles on my heart. I can’t begin to care where I am or what’s happening to me. I lie with my eyes closed until the darkness reclaims me.

 

A tearing scream pitches me into wakefulness. “Where are they going?” The gruff, threatening growl is followed by another wrenching shriek.

“I don’t know,” Johanna spits, her body arching away from the sputtering, glowing prod that hovers over her chest, a burning scorch mark blossoming to meet the three others on her pale skin. Instinctively, I leap against my restraints, but an icy immobility washes through my veins and I sink back into oblivion.

 

The burning jolt flares through my chest, yanking me back to awareness. Johanna is unconscious next to me and the prod menaces from the hand of the Peacekeeper, ready to burn me again. “Where are they going?” he demands. My body jerks away of its own accord, but my eyes stay fixed on the empty bed across from me. After asking three more times, each accompanied by a jab that burns my flesh, he shakes his head at my unresponsiveness and turns in disgust to a small, mounted camera on the wall. “He must still be scrambled from the shock. We’ll try again later.” Unable to raise any concern over this, I slip back into the cottony darkness.

I waver between waking and exquisite insensibility. Whenever I drift too close to awareness, the crushing weight of despair steals my breath and fogs my thinking. Something went very wrong, but I can’t force myself to try and puzzle out what. I know I’m in danger, but I can’t make myself care. Nothing matters anymore. The vision of the claw, rising to the hovercraft, clutching her motionless body, replays behind my eyes on an unending loop. Because I let her go. I lie in silent stupor as hot tears creep down my temples.

A snarling, hissing growl breaks through the fuzziness of my thoughts. “Do you know who I am? Who my mother is?” The venom in the low voice is undercut with a sizzling pop from the prod, but does not waver. “I will personally see that your tongue is served to you on a golden platter if you touch me with that again.” I can’t see her, but that is definitely Enobaria on the other side of the wall. “I have no idea where they took them, you excremental slug. Trust me, the last thing I wanted to do was help your precious Girl on Fire.” I squeeze my eyes tight against the vision of the claw, her hand curling lifelessly over the edge of the metal. “If it weren’t for this one,” the snarl continues, “she’d be properly dead and you wouldn’t be searching for her in the first place.”

My eyes fly open. _Properly_ dead? My mind wheels away from the tantalizing possibility, too precious to consider as real. I strain to hear, but the voice questioning her is only a low buzz, her strident responses are all that carry over a low humming sound. Engines?

“That’s not my problem, you moron. What was the point of that idiot tree in the first place? She got knocked out by the shock just like the rest of us.” My heart is slamming against my ribs. “Beetee is the only one who looked dead when I took off. She’s probably laughing her head off right now and drinking toasts with the hot kid. Leave me out of it.” I can’t breathe, can’t force my lungs to pull air. My pulse begins to race and just as I think I’ll scream with the joy of it, my veins are flooded with the icy numbness and I’m dragged under to nothingness.

The next time I wake, my thoughts are clear and I lie quietly, straining to hear any news. My breath comes in trembling gasps. Katniss is alive. And they don’t have her! I don’t know where I am, but it doesn’t matter. Katniss is alive. Katniss is alive! It makes no sense, I saw the hovercraft take her, but she is unquestionably free. I try to concentrate, to pick up any information. Nothing. Daring to crack my eyelids, I try to scan the room from under my lashes, but I think we’re alone. I open my eyes fully and see that Johanna is awake next to me, staring unseeing at the ceiling. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but she barely moves her head, shaking it “no.” She has more marks on her skin, the burns jagging out from a flower-like center. One eye is also blackened and blood crusts her nostrils. Her hand is swollen like a balloon, the fingers like purple sausages.

Horrified, I gape at her. What has happened? Where are we? I turn my head slowly, trying not to draw attention, and take in my surroundings. It seems like a small hospital, a mobile unit? My side is stiff, I can feel the bandage over the cut from Brutus’ knife. There are two more beds besides ours and a bewildering bank of machines, many of which are hooked to Johanna and me. I can hear a rumble and hum, hinting we’re in motion. I feel a chill as I realize we are probably heading for the Capitol. I look uneasily toward Johanna next to me. I clench my teeth and close my eyes. It won’t matter. She is away. She is safe.

The door hisses open and the sound of boots stops next to me. Opening my eyes, I see a Peacekeeper staring down at Johanna, and I feel my stomach drop. Her jaw moves slightly and I know she’s locking her teeth. Without warning, the Peacekeeper grabs one of her injured fingers and twists it upward. Her breath hisses in sharply and a single tear escapes down her cheek. “Where are they going?” he demands coldly.

“I don’t know,” she gasps, eyes on the ceiling.

He twists harder. “Where are they going?”

“I don’t know,” her reply is a cracked whisper.

“Get off her!” My voice slams across the space and I arch my body, pulling against the restraints, fury blinding me to the sharp pain.

Slowly, the Peacekeeper turns to face me. He cocks his head as if studying me, and a wide, malicious grin spreads across his face. “Don’t like to see the lady hurt?” he asks menacingly.

I see my mistake instantly, even as the despair flashes across Johanna’s face. He reaches for her other hand, gripping a finger and staring into my eyes. “Where are they going?” he asks me, bending her finger impossibly far backward while she arches her back in agony.

“Enough,” barks a cold, familiar voice. I snap my head around at the same time as the Peacekeeper to see an unwelcome figure filling the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing?” Head Peacekeeper Thread demands in a low growl.

“Questioning them,” the officer replies, but his confidence is clearly shaken. “We need information quickly before the trail goes cold.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Thread spits scornfully. “We know exactly where they’re going. Please don’t tell me the fact that they didn’t travel in a straight line threw you off.” His dark eyes spark with contempt. “Do you have any idea what it will cost to remove all that,” he waves a hand vaguely over her injuries, “for the cameras?”

The officer looks chagrined and stammers a defense, which Thread is having none of. “Get out of my sight,” he mutters. “And find a way to stay out of it while we’re aboard.” The Peacekeeper slinks away and Thread turns to stare at me, his eyes flat and vicious.

“What do you know, boy?” he grins slyly. “Looks like I get to go through you again. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Shouldn’t you be whipping someone for walking on the wrong side of the road?” I ask coldly. He only smiles wider.

“Not today. Today is much more interesting than your grimy little District ever was.” I concentrate on Katniss’ glower, trying to channel her untouched façade. “Today I get to tell you a story.” He reaches down and unfastens a buckle somewhere below me. I feel the strap across my chest loosen and in a second my wrists move freely as well. He presses a pedal and the bed tilts up, lifting me to a sitting position. He takes a seat on the edge and smiles conspiratorially.

“So,” he begins with relish. “It turns out your mockingjay has flown the coop. Along with a few of the other crackpots who thought they could incite riots and cause havoc and get away with it.” I watch him carefully, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “She planned a way to escape from the arena, taking her co-conspirators with her, and meet up with a band of rebels bent on stirring up discontent against the Capitol.” He sees the disgust on my face, I don’t even try to hide it. He smirks and tips his head. “I think you might not believe me.”

“Oh, no,” I deny. “I got it. Katniss Everdeen, rebel mastermind. Power to the people!” I raise my fist in mocking salute, but he only nods and gestures to Johanna.

“You didn’t think it was odd all these strangers were so determined to keep you alive?” he asks craftily. “You’re smarter than you look, I’m sure you noticed.”

Johanna lies silent, staring blindly at the ceiling. “Of course I did,” I admit. “But the one hardly leads to the other. If Katniss was leading a rebellion from the inside, why would she not let me in on it? If she was so determined to keep me alive, surely she wanted me to escape as well?”

Thread laughs coldly. “Oh, dammit, boy,” he says, shaking his head regretfully. “I have never been so stupid for someone as you are for her. Must be nice.” He holds my eyes with his dark, flat gaze. “She kept you alive because there is no one on this whole rotting planet more determined to keep her alive, than you. You’re the best bodyguard a girl could ask for.”

His words hang heavy in the air between us. My mind flashes back to the train home from the Games last year. When I realized, when she told me flat out, that she had no feelings for me. That she had convinced the entire nation, myself included, of the lie. But I shake my head. Suspicion and paranoia run high in the arena, it’s hard to shake when it’s over. The drugs they flooded my system with don’t help either. Impossible. Not Katniss.

He shrugs. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter if you believe me,” Thread says calmly. “I just feel bad for you. Had my heart broken once.” He pats my clenched fist companionably. “Better get ready. Clean this mess up,” he nods toward Johanna and stands briskly. “We’ll be there soon. President Snow wants a word with you.”

 

End of Book Two


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